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THE HOUSE 
IN THE HILLS 


BY 

FLORENCE WARDEN 

Author of “The House on the Marsh,** “ The Inn by the Shore,’* 



R. F. FENNO & COMPANY, 9 and 1 1 EAST 
SIXTEENTH STREET : NEW YORK CITY 

i8 99 

L . 


\ 


i 



H It 3 JL 



BY 

R. F. FENNO & COMPANY 

W3 OOFIK8 ftgCSslVk. 



SECONO COPY. 





The H ouse in the Hills 


CHAPTER I. 

On the 15th of September the Rev. Granville 
Masson wrote from Llandudno to his younger 
brother, a student at St. George's Hospital, 
London : 

“ My Dear Regie — I don't know whether it 
is that my temper becomes shorter as the end 
of my holiday draws near, but I can't stand 
this place at all. It is full of people, and the 
crowds bother me. The weather is magnificent, 
which, of course, accounts for the fact that the 
numbers of the visitors have not yet begun to 
thin. As for my health, I don't know whether 
it is any better, but on the other hand I don’t 
think it is any worse. My cough is still rather 
troublesome at night. I am a regular ‘ pale 
young curate ' now, and I think I rather resent 
the sympathetic glances the old ladies throw in 
my direction. It is evident that they consider 
me ‘ interesting,' a distinction at which, to do me 
justice, you will own I have never aimed. I 
think I shall go on, staying a day or two at 
Bettws-y-Coed, to South Wales, to get away 

7 


The House in the Hills 


from the eternal camera and bicycle, and from 
the equally eternal young lady with the high- 
pitched voice and the novel which she carries 
about and never reads. Yours. Granny.” 

On the 24th of September the same writer 
dated his letter from Aberystwith. 

“ Dear Regie — This place is better, not 
quite so full. On the other hand, I don't feel 
quite so well. This is to be accounted for, how- 
ever, by the change in the weather, which is now 
wet and cold. I have been out to the Devil’s 
Bridge, but I am going to do something more 
interesting. There are some much less fre- 
quented and wilder regions to be explored in 
this part of Wales than up in the North, which 
is like Regent street. Don't be surprised if you 
don't hear from me for a fortnight. I shall be 
on tramp. “ Yours, Granny.” 

Reginald Masson, who was much troubled 
about the health of his brother, wrote off to him 
at once, on receipt of this letter, begging him 
not to be too venturesome and not to begin ex- 
ploring unknown tracts of country in weather 
so unpropitious. 

He got one more letter, dated September 30, 
acknowledging his note of warning and 
announcing that Granville had put off his expedi- 
tion in deference to his brother's advice. The 
weather having now changed for the better, 
however, he intended to proceed without fur- 
ther delay. 


The House in the Hills 


9 


He wrote in a robust and cheerful tone, as if 
in the highest spirits over his proposed excur- 
sion, He had got hold of an odd creature, lie 
said; a wild, uncouth, red-headed son of the 
mountains, who was going to act as his guide 
and to coach him up in all the old Welsh tales 
and superstitions. 

And then his brother heard no more. 

At the end of one week Reginald was curious ; 
at the end of the second impatient; after the 
lapse of a third he was anxious and worried. 
The weather had grown bitterly cold for the 
time of year, and already reports had reached 
London of snow in the mountains of Scotland 
and of heavy rains in Wales. He wrote half a 
dozen letters to Aberystwith, addressed to his 
brother, to the proprietor of the hotel where he 
had stayed, to the Chief of Police. But all with- 
out much result. The proprietor of the hotel 
wrote that the Rev. Granville Masson had left 
the hotel on the morning of October 2 and had 
taken the train with the intention, as he stated, 
of alighting at Trecoed and of making a tour on 
foot from that town among the points of interest 
in the neighborhood. 

The Chief of Police wrote that he had heard 
of no accident befalling any traveller recently 
in the country. And the letters Reginald had 
addressed to his brother were returned to him. 

Thoroughly alarmed, he determined to go 
down into Wales himself, and to make inquiries, 
starting from the small town of Trecoed. It was 
near the middle of November when he arrived 


10 


The House in the Hills 


at the place and made direct for the principal 
inn. Here, at the very outset of his researches, 
he came upon the track of his brother. The inn- 
keeper nodded intelligently at the first ques- 
tions put by Reginald Masson. 

“ A young clergyman, tall, thin, gray eyes and 
brown hair? Yes, sir, he was here for one night 
about five weeks ago. But I can give you the 
exact date by looking at my books, and I can 
show you his portmanteau. I suppose I am 
right, sir, in thinking you are his brother? ” 

'‘Why, what made you think that? We are 
not supposed to be at all alike.” 

“ Not in face, sir, but in voice. I could have 
recognized the voice anywhere, and that in spite 
of the way of speaking young clergymen always 
have.” 

"And can you tell me where he went to from 
here? ” 

“ He was going to explore the country and 
make his way down gradually to the south by 
the Black Mountains and the Neath Valley and 
along the Chepstow, and then up the Wye, and 
so round here again to fetch his luggage.” 

“ He meant to come back here?” 

"Well, sir, he said he might and he might 
not. If he didn't come, he was to let me know 
where to send his luggage on.” 

"And what was the date of that?” asked 
Reginald Masson, whose anxiety was not much 
allayed by this intelligence. 

The landlord was looking through his book. 


The House in the Hills 1 1 

“ It was on the 3d of October that he went 
away.” 

“ Was he alone?” 

“ He was alone when he left the house, but I 
had warned him not to cross the mountains 
without a guide, and he said he had engaged 
one.” 

“Ah! We can find him out, I suppose, with' 
out any trouble? ” 

But the landlord shook his head dubiously. 

“ I don't know about that, sir. It wasn't one 
of our regular men, I know that. It was some 
one he had met before he came here, near the 
Devil’s Bridge, I understand, who had told him 
a lot of the local stories and legends and had 
arranged to take him across by Llyn Foel to 
Llandu.” 

“ Did he mention his name? ” 

“ Well, he may have done, sir, but if so I've 
forgotten it.” 

At this point of the conversation a man whose 
composite style of clothing suggested that, in 
the off season, he filled various functions at the 
inn, edged near enough to the speakers to show 
that he wished to join in the conversation. 

Reginald Masson turned to look at him, and 
the man saluted. 

“ Beg pardon, sir,” said he in a strong Welsh 
accent, “ but was you speaking of the clerical 
gentleman who left some of his luggage here a 
few weeks back? ” 

“Yes, yes. Well?” 

“ It was me who saw the last of him when he 


12 


The House in the Hills 


left here, sir, and he went out by himself, with 
just his little bag carried across him on a strap.” 

“By himself?” 

“Yes, sir. But, look you, as soon as he had 
left the house, not more than a quarter of an 
hour after, there come up a fellow who asked 
for him, and who went off after him, a fellow I 
know very well, sir.” 

“ Well, and who was it? ” 

“ It was a big, read-headed fellow, sir, who's 
employed on one of the sheep farms over in the 
hills yonder. He comes in most every market 
day.” 

“ And can you tell me his name? ” 

“ No, sir. I only know him through seeing 
him about. He drives in the sheep, and he buys 
and sells in the market for his master. So I've 
gathered. A rough-looking customer.” 

Reginald Masson's heart sank. Then a pas- 
sion of energy and anger seized him. It was 
impossible to doubt that some evil had befallen 
his brother, and this information seemed to 
point to the direction in which he must look for 
a solution of the mystery. 

Although he was burning with impatience to 
prosecute his inquiries, it was too late to do so 
that night. Already the little town was asleep; 
the lights in the windows were for the most part 
extinguished; there was hardly a footfall in the 
street. 

Reginald went up to his room, but he could 
not sleep. This rough, red-headed fellow who 
had come to the hotel immediately after Gran- 




The House in the Hills 


X 3 


ville's departure from it, could be, of course, no 
other than the “ wild, uncouth son of the moun- 
tains ” of whom his brother had written in his 
last letter. To find this man, therefore, was 
plainly the first thing to be done. 

On the following morning the waiter who had 
given him the information came up to Reginald 
and told him that he had made inquiries in the 
town that morning and learned that the name 
of the red-headed man was unknown, but that 
he was called “ Coch Tal ” as a nickname in the 
sheep market at Aberayron. 

“ And have you been able to find out where he 
lives ?” asked Reginald. 

“ Yes, sir. It's up in the hills yonder, over by 
Llyn Foel. He's in the employ of a farmer 
yonder, Mr. Tregaron of Monachlog farm.” 

“ Is that far off? ” 

“ It's a matter of five or six miles, look you, 
up along the valley. But it would be hard for 
you to find without a guide, sir, being right up 
among the hills.” 

“ Well, you can find me a guide, can't you? ” 

u Oh, yes, sir. You don't think of going 
to-day, sir, do you?” 

“ Certainly I do. Without a moment's delay.” 

“ Well, sir, it's a nasty day for such a walk. 
We shall have snow before midday by the look 
of the sky, and when the snow comes on it’s 
hard work for them that knows the paths well 
to find their way among the hills.” 

“ Well, hard v/ork or not, I have to go. And 


14 The House in the Hills 

if you can't find me a guide I must go without 
one.” 

Reginald was eating ham and eggs, but with 
very little appetite. His anxiety and feverish 
eagerness to be on the road made breakfast a 
hard task. 

“ All right, sir. I’ll find you a guide, sir,” said 
the waiter. 

And then he shuffled away with apparent 
haste until he reached the door of the coffee- 
room, when he turned slowly and hesitatingly, 
and came back again. His tone had become 
mysterious. 

“ I think, perhaps, I ought to tell you, sir, 
something they told me this morning, when I 
was asking about the young man Coch Tal.” 

“ Well, what was it? ” 

“ I was told, sir, that he's not been seen so 
much in the town lately — not since the begin- 
ning of last month, in fact. He's been ill, they 
think; don't look the same man, sir, when he 
does come, as he used to look.” 

“ Thank you. Now see about getting me the 
guide, there's a good fellow,” said Reginald, as 
he jumped from his seat and began to button 
Up his coat. “ My boots, please.” 

“ You’ve quite made up your mind to go, sir? ” 

“ Quite.” 

The matter of obtaining a guide into the hills 
proved, however, to be less easy than Reginald 
had supposed. He had to wait so long, in fact, 
before the waiter, who had undertaken the 
search for <*ne, returned to the inn, that at last 


The House iu the Hills 15 

Reginald, unable to control his impatience any 
longer, told the landlord to send the guide after 
him, and started on his journey into the hills 
alone. 

The flakes of snow had already begun to flut- 
ter down, and he was strongly advised to give 
up his expedition until the following day. He 
would not, however, hear of any delay. 

He started at a brisk pace, quite undisturbed 
by any thought that his journey might be one of 
difficulty or even danger. The lightly falling 
snow threw a soft veil over the landscape, soft- 
ening the rugged outline of the hills towards 
which he was going, and filling up the ruts in 
the road. 

He had gone some distance, walking quickly, 
and deeply preoccupied with his gloomy 
thoughts concerning his brother's fate, when it 
occurred to him to wonder why the guide was 
such a long time in coming. 

At the same moment the thought came into 
his mind, with an ugly persistency, that it was 
in this very same fashion that Granville had 
started on the expedition which had, in all prob- 
ability, been a fatal one to him. 


CHAPTER II. 


Reginald Masson turned round, and looked 
back along the way by which he had come. 

At least, it would be more correct to say that 
he tried to do so. For he now perceived that 
the snow had for the last ten minutes been com- 
ing down so fast as to reduce the wide space 
over which he had travelled to a flat expanse, 
in which to trace out the road by which he had 
come was, to his inexperienced eyes, an 
impossibility. 

His very foot tracks, not having been made in 
deep snow, were already obliterated; and the 
wind was driving the flakes straight into his 
eyes as he stared and stared, vainly trying to 
recognize some landmark by which he could find 
his way back. 

He felt that to venture further without the 
guide would be madness. Yet to go back, now 
that the snow was driving from that direction, 
was almost equally difficult. As he paused for 
one moment, deliberating, and blinking to keep 
the snow out of his smarting eyes, he heard a 
man's voice behind him, evidently at some dis- 
tance, singing one of those wild, half-mournful, 
wholly tender Welsh ballads which are forever 
on the lips of these people of the mountains. 

Reginald Masson turned again, facing the 

16 


The House in the Hills 


*7 


mountains once more. With his back to the 
wind, it was easier to see, and he managed to 
distinguish a dark figure on the rising ground a 
little way ahead of him, making its way slowly 
through the snow in the direction of the hills. 

Reginald shouted, but the man went on sing- 
ing and took no notice. Against the whitening 
background and through the veil of falling snow 
his figure stood out, seeming to be gigantic in 
size. 

There was nothing for Reginald to do but to 
follow this, the only human figure in sight. 
Quickening his pace, not without difficulty, for 
the road had dwindled into a rough foot track, 
he came up with the stranger at a point where 
the path began to wind round the side of a hill. 
By this time the town was so far behind and the 
snow was falling so thickly that Reginald Mas- 
son felt that the only safe thing to do was to 
address himself to this stranger, who could 
hardly be as ignorant of the country as he was 
himself. 

The man had quickened his pace; and was 
now making his way, still singing to himself, 
with long strides, which made it difficult for the 
town-bred Masson to overtake him. So that at 
last Reginald had to speak from behind, with- 
out having had one opportunity of seeing the 
face of the man he was addressing. 

“ Can you tell me,” called out he, “ if I am on 
the right road for Monachlog, and how far off 
it is?” 

The man in front had stopped with a discon- 


1 8 The House in the Hills 


certing suddenness before his interlocutor had 
got to the end of his question. His body, which 
had been bent nearly double as he ascended the 
hill, thick stick in hand, had become upright and 
rigid, but he did not turn round, and he did not 
answer. 

Reginald, coming a step nearer and trying to 
get a look at the man’s face, repeated his 
question. 

He might as well have poured his words into 
the ears of a statue of bronze. The stranger, a 
man of enormous height, dressed in the rough 
clothing of the hillside peasant, his head and 
face almost hidden behind the collar of a coat 
which he wore cloak fashion over his shoulders, 
answered never a word — did not even turn his 
face toward his questioner. 

Supposing that the man was deaf, Reginald, 
who was now close to him, touched him on the 
arm. But the moment he did so a paroxysm of 
terror seemed to seize the fellow; he shook off 
the light touch with an abrupt and violent 
movement, and, still without turning his head, 
began 10 run up the hillside path as if for his 
life. 

For a few seconds Reginald watched him in 
amazement, thinking that the fellow must be 
an imbecile. But then it occurred to him as 
possible that it might be only the uncouth native 
way of treating a stranger, a way compounded 
of rustic shyness and superstitious fear. For 
fear was apparently the emotion uppermost in 
the heart of the flying countryman. 


The House in the Hills 


*9 


The snow was now coming clown in larger 
flakes; the sky had grown heavy and lowering. 
After one more glance back Reginald saw that 
to follow this son of the mountains was his best 
chance of safety. The man had now got so far 
ahead, however, being evidently used to these 
paths in all weathers, and sure of foot as a mule, 
that Reginald had some difficulty in keeping him 
in sight. 

Up the rugged, slowly ascending footpath, 
which he would never have been able to find 
but for the footprints of the peasant, winding 
round the hill, descending again, turning, twist- 
ing about among the rough hill tracks, now with 
a peep into glens and valleys where the gray 
shadows lurked in the corners, now shut in on 
all sides by the bare and stony hills, Reginald 
followed his unwitting guide. 

The way grew wilder as they went. The hills 
grew loftier, stonier; patches of dark gray rock 
showed black against the snow, while here and 
there a tuft of bush and briar, or a lonely, 
stunted tree, stood up from the white ground 
like a gaunt, misshapen figure, bent into strange 
curves by the weight of the snow it bore, and 
seeming to point with a dark, fleshless finger into 
the recesses of the barren hills. 

The figure in front had never once turned, and 
Reginald felt sure that the sturdy mountaineer 
was unaware that he was serving as guide to 
the stranger whom he had treated so cavalierly. 
At last, after a rough and toilsome descent of a 
barren hillside, made dangerous to the foot pas- 


20 The House in the Hills 


senger by great quantities of small, loose stones, 
the pursuer having at last gained somewhat 
upon the pursued, the two found themselves in 
a cleft of the mountains, through which a wild, 
weird sight presented itself to the view. 

In a rough basin formed by the stony, barren 
mountains, lay stretched before their eyes the 
dark waters of a lake, which looked inky-black 
against the snow which lay all around. Here 
and there on its borders a great gray bowlder, 
snow-capped, but bare and dark on its scooped- 
out sides, stood upon the flat expanse of untrod- 
den snow r . Nothing else, not a tree, not a bush, 
broke up the monotonous stretch of bleak, deso- 
late shore and black, lonely pool. As the big 
snowflakes fluttered down swiftly and softly into 
the black waters, each absorbed as soon as it fell, 
Reginald shuddered, with a sudden hideous 
fancy that in some such silent, grim fashion, a 
lonely traveller might be swallowed up by the 
cold, placid waters of this mountain tarn in the 
shadow of the hills. 

Even the rustic in front seemed to be 
impressed by the wuld and awful desolation of 
the scene; at any rate he paused, and thus gave 
Reginald an opportunity of getting up to him. 

Determined not to be evaded or avoided this 
time, Masson seized the huge peasant in a strong 
grip, and with an unexpected movement, 
brought him face to face with himself so sud- 
denly that the other man slipped upon the loose 
stones, lost his footing and fell down. 

As he did so, his round cap fell off, and Reg- 


The House in the Hills 


21 


inald Masson, with a great leap up of the heart, 
saw that his head was covered by a thick crop 
of short red hair. 

“Coch Tal!” shouted Masson. 

The peasant made no answer except by a gut- 
tural exclamation. 

But his face, which had been red with exer- 
cise, blanched to a livid pallor. He scrambled 
to his feet, and with one wild stroke of his 
stick, which Reginald was quick enough to 
avoid, he sprang like a deer down the narrow 
ravine, and disappeared behind a spur of the 
hill. 


CHAPTER III. 


With a savage shout, as the huge mountaineer 
escaped him, Reginald Masson sprang down the 
ravine after him. He could not doubt that this 
was the very man of whom he was in search, 
the man who could give him, if he chose, some 
news of Granville's fate. That this information 
would have to be wrung out of him by the 
ungentlest means, and that, when obtained, it 
would amount to little more than a tissue of lies, 
he felt sure. 

In the wild eyes and blanched cheeks of 
Coch Tal, Reginald had read the signs of an 
abject, sick terror, which warned him of what 
he already guessed, that his brother’s fate had 
been a tragic one, and that this rough, uncouth 
creature, whom he had taken for his guide, was 
cognizant, to say the least, of the details of it. 

As he stumbled down the moutain side in 
hot pursuit, indeed, Reginald felt not a doubt 
but that he was chasing his brother’s murderer. 
Everything that he had heard and seen seemed 
to confirm this impression, which stamped itself 
each moment more firmly in his mind. 

There flashed through his brain, even as he 
ran, stumbling, leaping, sinking in the snow at 
every other step, those words of the waiter at 
the inn, telling him that Coch Tal had been ill 


22 


The House in the Hills 


2 3 


since the beginning of last month — the time of 
Granville’s disappearance; that he had been seen 
less in the town since that date; that he had 
seemed, since then, “ a changed man.” 

These circumstances, trifling in themselves, 
became important when taken in conjunction 
with the man’s horror at the sound of Reginald’s 
voice. He felt that it was the resemblance 
between his voice and his brother’s which had 
struck such infinite terror into the mind of the 
peasant; terror which had become more acute 
when he heard his own nickname pronounced by 
the lips of a man whom he had never seen before. 

And while these thoughts, stimulated by the 
fierce passion which possessed him, chased each 
other through Reginald’s mind, his feet flew 
from point to point of the rough way, with ever 
increasing rapidity. It seemed as if the exalta- 
tion of his mind had communicated new powers 
to his body; for he followed Coch Tal with more 
ease, more security than before, and rounding 
the hill at a great pace when he reached the 
foot of it, he found himself only a little way 
behind the object of his pursuit. 

The peasant heard him, gave one look round, 
and uttering once more the guttural exclama- 
tion, like the cry of a wild bird, which had 
chilled Reginald’s blood when they first came 
face to face, he went on his way at a swifter 
pace than ever. 

On they went again, pursuer and pursued, 
with the snow and the wind driving at their 
backs, filling up the crevices and the ruts in the 


24 


The House in the Hills 


rough foot tracks, and swirling into drifts to 
right and left of them. 

Up the rough side of a mountain, which 
looked as they approached it like the stone wall 
of a huge fortress or prison; up, up, up, tearing 
his hands on the crags of rugged gray stone, 
which jutted like pin-points out of the snow- 
drifts, went Reginald, his teeth set and his heart 
beating like a hammer in his breast. 

The mountaineer could beat him at this work: 
could climb like a cat where his pursuer could 
only crawl. And the distance between the two 
began rapidly to increase. The peasant was out 
of sight when Reginald reached the top. 

There were now only the footprints in the 
snow to guide him, but even as he took the first 
step forward in the track Coch Tal had made a 
gust of wind, which he felt with redoubled 
force on this bleak hilltop, whirled the snow- 
flakes round him in a blinding storm, forcing 
him to turn and to shelter his face. When for 
some seconds the blast had howled and whistled 
and roared in his deafened ears, and the drifts 
had swept up from the ground in blinding sheets 
of stinging spray, there was a sudden lull, a 
momentary calm, and as the wind died the snow 
fell less heavily. 

Reginald raised his head, shook himself clear 
from the thick white coatings of hard dry snow, 
and looked around him for the traces of the 
peasant’s footsteps. 

They were gone, all trace of them swept away 
under the smooth white sheet. 


The House in the Hills 25 

He shivered as he looked about him; down 
into the dark waters of the black tarn below 
him on his left hand; at the barren hills on the 
sides of which great perpendicular slabs of cold 
gray rock relieved the white mass and disclosed 
the stony bareness of the soil; at the lowering 
clouds above, which seemed to be descending on 
his head; at the never ending prospect of hills, 
hills, bare and cold and white, and melting into 
forlorn gray distances on every side. 

Look which way he would, he could see no 
sign of human habitation. Chilled to the mar- 
row with something which was worse than cold, 
worse almost than fear, he recognized the des- 
perate situation in which he was placed and 
knew that the chances of his getting back to 
Trecoed alive were infinitesimally small. 

Although he had left the inn before noon, with 
the day before him, he saw by his watch that it 
was already 4 o'clock, and the gray of the winter 
evening was already gathering in the valleys and 
ravines beneath. 

Where should he turn? Not back by the way 
he had come, even if that had been possible. 
For he had passed not a hut, not a cottage, and 
he could not hope to find his road to Trecoed 
before night fell. 

Making a rapid exploration of the small table- 
land on which he stood, Reginald fancied that 
he descried, half way up the side of a hill on his 
right, of lower elevation than the one upon 
which he was standing, and less rugged in 
appearance, a gray shapeless something which 


26 The House in the Hills 


looked like the fragment of a ruined building. 
In his desperate plight even such a chance of a 
precarious shelter for the night as a ruin might 
afford caused him a sensation of something acute 
as joy. 

To discover this possible refuge was one thing, 
but to get to it was another. So Reginald Mas- 
son soon found as he started down that side of 
the mountain which appeared to offer the most 
direct route. This descent was the most peril- 
ous thing he had undertaken that day; the 
mountain was steep, strewn with loose stones, 
and its pitfalls and inequalities were hidden 
beneath the snow. 

Any sort of path or foot track was of course 
not to be discerned; a way had to be found, 
haphazard, between the jutting gray crags and 
a stunted growth of rugged pine trees, which 
grew on the side of this hill a little distance 
from the summit. 

Having passed through the narrow belt of 
wood Masson found himself, without warning, 
cn the brink of a perpendicular cliff, which 
formed one side of a mountain pass, ioo feet 
below him. 

The snow was falling heavily again, the day- 
light had grown fainter, and the ruin toward 
which his steps were bent was no longer in 
sight. He turned back, and making his way 
among the rough tree trunks, which afforded 
some valuable assistance in the scramble among 
the stones, he got at last to the bottom of the 


The House in the Hills 27 

hill, and, turning to the left, reached something 
like level ground. 

Then he stopped and looked about him. The 
silence, the loneliness, were awful. The big 
flakes of snow touched his face like the cold 
fingers of dead hands. Before him he saw 
nothing but the bare, bleak sides of the moun- 
tain pass, and a black patch beyond which he 
knew to be the waters of Llyn Foel. At his feet 
trickled, in a thin, snake-like line, the feeble 
lake-fed stream which became, some miles away, 
a fair sized river. Behind him was a dreary 
white waste and all around were frowning 
heights of gray, grim hills, with the night shad- 
ows growing black in the crevices which the 
snow could not reach. 

The oppression on his spirits was so great 
that he felt it a labor to draw breath. With dif- 
ficulty groping in his mind toward a remem- 
brance of the relative positions of the pass, the 
mountain he had descended, and the hill upon 
which he had discerned the ruin which it was 
his ambition to reach, he at last turned his back 
to the pass and made his way with difficulty 
beside the stream, the course of which he 
followed. 

He had gone some fifty yards, and had seen or 
heard nothing to help him on his way, when a 
sound suddenly reached his ears and seemed to 
pierce the air like an arrow. 

It was nothing but a moan, a cry, pitiful, 
agonizing. But it was the sound of a human 
voice. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Reginald Masson raised his head sharply and 
threw all the force of his lungs into a shout 
which echoed in the hills. There was a pause 
and his heart began to fail him again, for fear 
that he should get no reply. 

Then above him on his left hand he heard a 
man’s voice calling: 

“ Hello! Hello! ” 

Pie made out the direction whence the voice 
proceeded, a point almost immediately above 
him. He paused again, but hearing nothing 
more, and fearing that this chance of meeting a 
fellow human being might escape him, he leaped 
across the little stream and began a vigorous 
attempt to ascend the hill. 

Pdiis was comparatively easy, for instead of 
the stones and crags of the last mountain he 
had climbed his feet reached down through the 
snow to a springy surface of dry heather, slip- 
pery in places, but less treacherous than the 
rolling stones. He shouted once more on his 
way up, but got no reply. 

Resolved not to let this opportunity of human 
companionship escape him, Masson then went 
on quietly and as quickly as he could, without 
uttering any further sound. From the tones of 
the voice he heard — tones of acute suffering — 

28 


The House in the Hills 


29 


he judged that the man who had uttered them 
had come to grief on his way among the moun- 
tains, and had wondered whether it was Coch 
Tal, who, in escaping from himself, had met 
with an accident. 

As usual among the mountains, Masson 
climbed for a much longer time than he had 
bargained for before he came to anything but 
little table-lands, with more hills beyond. 
Again and again he thought he must have 
reached the very summit, and again and again, 
on arriving at what he had supposed to be the 
last point, he found another point to be scaled 
beyond. 

Then at last he found himself face to face 
with a man. 

Not the red-headed peasant, but a creature as 
unlike him as possible, a small, lithe, black- 
eyed man, with a keen, hawk-like face and a 
wiry little frame, a real son of the Silures, who 
stopped short in his hurried walk up and down 
the ledge of the mountain he occupied and 
glared at the intruder with fierce eyes. 

'‘Who are you? Who are you? What are 
you doing here?” he asked in good English, but 
with the sharp Welsh accent very strongly 
marked. 

Although his words contained no welcome, 
and although the look in his face was as unprom- 
ising as his words themselves, Masson was so 
much relieved by the sight of another human 
being that he answered buoyantly enough. 

“ I am a stranger in these parts. I’ve lost my 


3 ° 


The House in the Hills 


way. I should be thankful for a night's shel- 
ter. I can't get back to Trecoed to-night." 

As he spoke Reginald Masson examined the 
man's features, in which he found traces of no 
mean intelligence; and his dress, by which he 
guessed him to be a small farmer, a man of 
higher class than Coch Tab 

And in the pause which succeeded his words 
Masson noted also that he had reached the very 
point toward which he had meant to make his 
way. For on a mountain ledge a little higher 
than the one on which they stood he saw the 
gray walls which had attracted him from the 
neighboring mountain, and a ruined arch, lofty 
and pointed, which had once been the east win- 
dow of an abbey church. 

Even in the first brief glance, through the 
still falling snow, and in the gathering dark- 
ness, he discerned that a stately Gothic door- 
way had been filled in to fit a mean little painted 
door, and that a portion of what had once been 
a handsome pile of monastic buildings had been 
roughly roofed in for modern occupation. To 
the left of the door a window had been inserted 
into the solid masonry, and through this win- 
dow a feeble light glimmered so faintly that it 
threw no patch of warning light on the snow 
outside. 

At the corner of the building a large snow- 
drift had already collected, and this was grad- 
ually extending, as the snow still fell and the 
wind still blew, in the direction of the window. 

The farmer, after a long pause, answered 


The House in the Hills 31 

Massons request ungraciously enough. His 
manner was short, sharp, surly. But it was less 
offensive than defensive, Masson thought, 
betraying as it did a mind ill at ease. 

“Back to Trecoed! What made you leave 
Trecoed on such a day as this?” he said gruffly, 
while his quick eyes looked searchingly, not at 
Reginald, but down into the valley from which 
he had just climbed. “ You must have been out 
of your senses, man, to try. And across the 
hills, too! ” 

He seemed less pitiful for the stranger's dis- 
tresses than scornful of his folly. 

“Yes, it was a rash thing to do. I was to 
have had a guide, but I started without him.” 

The other man laughed, mirthlessly, con- 
temptuously. 

“ Oh, aye; the guide knew better what he was 
about than you did ! ” 

“You won't refuse me a night’s shelter?” 

The man shook his head. 

“We’ve no shelter to give,” he said, shortly. 

“ I can pay for it well.” 

The unwilling host looked at him with a lit- 
tle more interest, but he again shook his head. 

“ It's not possible just now,” said he, in the 
same half-defiant, wholly surly tone. “There's 
illness in the house, and no time for waiting on 
strangers, with my daughter, my poor girl, lying 
at death's door.” 

As he uttered these words the expression of 
his face underwent a sudden change and a look 
of unutterable anguish shone in his black eyes. 


3 2 


The House in the Hills 


“111?” said Masson. “Your daughter ill? 
Perhaps I can be of some use, then. Pm a 
doctor.” 

The man, who had turned away as if to hide 
his own distress, sprang upon him with a wild 
look of joy in his sensitive face. He seized 
Masson by the arm with the nervous grip of a 
small, strong hand, and holding him tight 
stared up into his face as if he would force out 
some truth which the other wished to conceal 
from him. 

“ You — a doctor? No, no! ” he said hoarsely, 
stammering in his excitement. “You say so, 
you say that — to get the night’s shelter you 
have been asking for! No, no, you’re not a 
doctor. It’s too much — too much to hope 
for — too much, too much!” 

“Let me go,” said Masson, good-humoredly. 
“ I can soon prove it to you, I think. Let me 
get at my pockets.” 

But already the man was convinced. Mas- 
son’s attitude, his readiness to give his creden- 
tials had been enough for the eager father. 

At the first plunge into his pockets Masson 
brought out a small case of surgical instru- 
ments which he always carried about with him, 
and the moment he drew it out the little Welsh- 
man seized him again and began to drag him 
upward toward his dwelling. 

“ Come in, come in,” said he in a broken whis- 
per. “ Come in, sir, and don’t bear me malice 
for treating you so shabbily at first. I’m nigh 


The House in the Hills 33 

beside myself, that I am, sir, and now — now — 
oh, thank God, thank God!” 

And the excitable little fellow burst into loud 
sobbing and climbed up the slope toward the 
gray ruin above, still holding Masson in a firm 
grip with one hand and hiding his contorted face 
with the other. 

From the size of the ruined building which 
had been converted into a farmhouse, and from 
the appearance of such of the old walls as were 
left, Masson decided without difficulty that the 
remains were monastic, although the situation 
was higher than was usually the case with such 
peaceful institutions. 

The position was, however, sheltered and 
pleasant, protected on the north side by a moun- 
tain of great steepness, and so hemmed in by 
lesser hills on the east and west sides as to leave 
it open only to the milder south. 

As Masson allowed himself to be led forward, 
he noticed that the ruins on the left and the 
fragments of an east window were the remains 
of a church of small size, and he conjectured 
that the portion of the ruin which had been made 
habitable was what was left of the monastery 
itself. 

In the darkness, however, with the snow still 
falling, and his companion hurrying him for- 
ward, he had little leisure to take accurate note 
of his surroundings. The ground, moreover, 
was uneven and rough, being encumbered by 
stones and by fragments of overgrown ruin. 
They came upon the door quite suddenly, as 


34 The House in the Hills 

they got round the base of a massive pillar, 
which, no longer supporting anything, stood by 
itself like a sentinel before the incongruous pile 
of old and new, mean things and stately, which 
formed the farmer’s home. 

They dashed into the dwelling quickly, and 
the farmer, drawing his companion in, shut the 
door and paused for breath. 

Reginald looked round him with astonishment 
and interest. 

The room in which he found himself had evi- 
dently been the refectory of the monastery, for 
the stone pulpit in the wall w where the reader 
used to stand during the dinner hour was still 
to be seen, though broken and imperfect, on the 
south side of the room. 

A rough partition wall of lath and plaster had 
been erected just beyond this pulpit, and in this 
partition were two doors leading to the other 
apartments of the farm house. 

On the right, opposite to the pulpit in the wall, 
was a huge open fireplace partly filled in with 
bricks, in which a fire of logs was burning. 

On the left wall, which was roughly white- 
washed, the outlines of the lower part of a row 
of beautiful early English windows, divided by 
clusters of slender pillars, were plainly to be 
seen. Small latticed windows and more bricks 
and mortar filled up the spaces where the lights 
had been. 

The huge beams of rough wood overhead, 
dark and dusty, showed that the farmhouse had 
stood in its present condition for a length of 


The House in the Hills 35 

years. The floor was red tiled, clean and bright; 
the oak settees and presses, the pots and pans 
on the white dresser, the neat hearth, the fresh 
white walls, all testified to the care of a house- 
wifely hand. 

But the only creature in the room was a with- 
ered and bent old woman, wearing a large apron 
of check print over her dark dress, a small shawl 
drawn tightly round her shoulders and a clean 
white cap, who sat in a rocking chair almost 
over the fire, with crossed legs, a short pipe 
between her lips and her eyes fixed on the red 
heart of the fire. 

She neither spoke nor moved when the farmer 
and his guest entered; only her eyes, black and 
keen as those of the farmer himself, turned 
slowly, took in all the details of the stranger’s 
appearance, and then moved round again slowly 
toward the glowing logs. 

Masson, bewildered and dazzled by the change 
into light and warmth, almost staggered when 
he found himself once more on a level floor. 

The farmer had advanced to the fire, and, 
bending to warm his hands in the blaze, said a 
few words to the old woman. They formed a 
question, Masson knew by the tone. But he 
could not understand it, as it was in the Welsh 
language. 

As the farmer’s thin, muscular hands were 
stretched out over the flames, Masson caught 
sight of a ring on the little finger of his right 
hand which caused him to shudder with a hor- 
ror which chilled his blood. 


36 The House in the Hills 

It was an old-fashioned ring, of singular 
design. I11 a broad band of gold, deeply and 
heavily chased, was set a circle of plain gold half 
an inch wide, in which was an amethyst of a 
deep purple color. 

A most singular ring, not to be mistaken for 
another; old-fashioned, quaint, clumsy, hand- 
some with an old-time beauty of good workman- 
ship and of old association. 

For Reginald Masson recognized it as a ring 
which had belonged to his own grandfather, a 
ring which his brother Granville had worn 
always on the little finger of his left hand. 


CHAPTER V. 


Reginald Masson could not repress an excla- 
mation when he recognized his brother’s ring 
on the farmer’s hand. 

He came a step nearer, still with his eyes 
steadily fixed on the jewel, until at last he 
touched it with his trembling finger. The 
farmer, who had watched him in some surprise, 
frowned and drew back as the other advanced. 

'‘I beg your pardon,” said Masson quickly; 
“ but — the ring on your finger — I — I — have 
only seen one like it before.” As he spoke he 
came a step nearer still and seized the farmer’s 
hand. His own agitation increased as he exam- 
ined the ring more closely and assured himself 
beyond a doubt that it was indeed his brothers. 
“I — I — Will you tell me how you got it? 
You must forgive the question; you will forgive 
it, when I tell you that when I last saw the ring 
it was upon the hand of my own brother.” 

His feelings had by this time possessed him so 
strongly that he dropped the hand of the farmer, 
which had remained passive and cold in his, and 
supported himself for a few moments against 
the wall by the fireplace. The awful fears as to 
his brother’s fate which had filled his heart for 
so long had, upon this strange discovery, 
reached the point of acute agony. Although he 

37 


3 8 The House in the Hills 

felt, he knew that he had need of all his cool- 
ness, of all his self-possession, to get at the heart 
of the mystery upon the borders of which he 
found himself, neither feeling nor knowledge 
helped him in that first awful moment. 

“ My brother! My poor brother! ” 

His lips formed the words, but did not utter 
them. He was unable to see, or to think. The 
pitiful consciousness that the ring was now 
nothing but a relic of the dead unnerved, over- 
whelmed him. 

The farmer’s husky voice roused him after the 
lapse of a few seconds. 

“ It’s very strange, sir; very strange, if what 
you say should turn out to be true,” said he, 
less brusquely than before. “ But, for sure, it’s 
a most uncommon ring, and it’s true I haven’t 
had it long, nor I can’t tell who had it 
before me.” 

Masson had roused himself already from the 
despondency and despair into which the first 
sight of the ring had thrown him. As he turned 
toward the farmer the latter took the ring from 
his finger and put it into the trembling hand of 
his guest. 

“ Maybe,” went on the farmer, “ you’ll see 
some marks, if you look at it close, by which you 
may tell for certain one way or the other.” 

Reginald nodded. 

“ I can identify it beyond all shadow of a 
doubt,” said he in a broken voice. “ It was left 
to my brother by my mother’s father. How did 
it come into your possession?” 


The House in the Hills 


39 


“ I’ll tell you all about it, sir, presently, when 
you have seen my daughter/’ said he. “ But 
meantime you’re welcome to keep it, sir, till 
you’ve heard all there is to tell about it. When 
you have heard that, you’ll be able to say for 
certain, I expect, whether the ring was your 
brother’s. This way, sir, please.” 

The matter of the ring, singular as it was, 
seemed to have but little interest for him, so 
deeply absorbed was he in anxiety for his daugh- 
ter. But it was not unnatural that he should 
appear to look with something like suspicion 
at a guest who had made so strange a claim. 
As Masson advanced, therefore, toward the inner 
door, which was held open for him to pass 
through, the farmer watched him narrowly with 
his keen black eyes. 

And Masson, returning his gaze, was more 
impressed than before by a countenance which 
changed so rapidly in its expression from despair 
to curiosity, and back again to despair. 

They passed into the back room formed by the 
remaining portion of the refectory. It was evi- 
dently used as a washhouse, bakehouse and as a 
place of storage, not as a living room. The 
walls were characterized by the same free use of 
whitewash as in the big kitchen; a beautiful 
arcade with clusters of slender pillars, on the 
left hand side, which time had defaced but 
little, having been included in this modern 
“ restoration.” 

In one corner was a rough wooden staircase 
with a small landing at the top. On each side 


40 The House in the Hills 

of this was a door, and having ascended the 
stairs with the farmer, Masson followed him 
into a large room at the back, where there were 
two small beds and a few pieces of substantial, 
old-fashioned furniture. There were some 
strips of drugget on the clean floor; there were 
curtains of bright turkey red over the windows, 
of which there were two, looking west; a fire 
was burning in a small grate on the right, and 
the whole room showed the cleanliness and care 
which had been noticeable in the kitchen. On 
the top of a chest of drawers the farmer pointed 
out a little medicine chest. 

Only one of the beds was occupied, and as the 
farmer led the way toward it the girl lying in it 
turned her head quickly, and fixed upon the 
stranger a pair of large, glittering eyes. 

Masson took the chair beside the bed which 
the farmer placed for him, and looked at her by 
the light of a candle, which her father brought 
across the room from the mantelpiece. 

While he made his examination the girl con- 
tinued to stare at him fixedly, and as she did so 
her brows gradually contracted with a slight 
frown. Not a word had been uttered by any 
one of the three. 

At last the farmer spoke. 

“ Well, sir?” said he in a tremulous voice. 

Masson looked up quickly and was touched to 
the heart. Down the farmer's thin, swarthy 
face the tears were streaming like rain. 

“She's very ill, ain't she, sir? My poor 
Gwyn.” 


The House in the Hills 4! 

“ She’s ill, certainly, but you mustn’t give way 
like that!” said Masson. 

He had taken the girl’s hand and was feeling 
her pulse. The moment he spoke he felt a 
strong tremor run through her, and, glancing 
at her quickly, he saw that the strained, intent 
look with which she had previously regarded 
him had changed to an expression of terror. 

Still she did not utter a sound. 

Perceiving that for some reason which he 
could not divine, his patient looked upon him 
with fear if not mistrust, the young doctor 
hastened to leave the room, after uttering a few 
more reassuring words, each one of which 
seemed, however, to have the effect of deepen- 
ing the impression of horror with which he 
appeared to have inspired her. 

When he reached the door, Masson threw, in 
turning to leave the room, one last glance at the 
girl. She had raised her head a little, the bet- 
ter to watch him; and her lips were moving 
rapidly, as if she was forming words with her 
mouth which something within bade her not to 
utter. 

So much struck was he by this attitude of his 
patient that he turned to her father and said, in 
a low voice: ' 

“ Is she always shy and afraid of strangers? 
My coming seems to alarm her terribly.” 

“ No, sir,” answered the farmer. “ Gwyn’s 
not so shy, considering she lives in the wilds.” 

The girl was still watching with the same 
feverish intentness, and Masson, who began to 


42 The House in the Hills 

fear that this horror or aversion on her part 
would interfere with his chances of success with 
the case, went back to the bedside, in the hope 
of finding some words to say to her which would 
put him on a more favorable footing. 

But on seeing him approach, she sank back on 
her pillow and closed her eyes. He stood for a 
few seconds looking at her face, which was that 
of a well-grown, handsome girl of some 18 or 
20 years, with masses of black hair; and then, 
as she kept her eyes resolutely shut and still 
uttered no word, he withdrew without disturb- 
ing her. 

At the door, however, for the second time, he 
saw that she had raised her head to watch him 
go out. 


CHAPTER VI. 


The farmer scarcely waited to close the door 
of the room before questioning the doctor. 

“ Will she get over it, sir? Will she get over 
it? It’s no use deceiving me, sir. I know she’s 
very ill. But — will my dear get over it? Or 
will she — will she ” 

His voice faltered and died away. Great 
drops of sweat stood upon his forehead. He 
clutched the doctor’s arm in a grip of iron. 

“ We must ahvays hope for the best,” began 
the doctor. 

But at these doubtful words the farmer 
spurned him with so much violence that it was 
only by a quick movement that Masson escaped 
being flung down the stairs on the tiles of the 
outhouse below. 

“ I beg pardon, I beg pardon, sir,” cried the 
farmer, contrite immediately, as he held out a 
beseeching hand toward the guest he had a 
moment before treated so roughly. “ But if you 
knew how I feel, what it would mean to me if — 
if my girl — my bonny girl was to die — ” 
Again his voice shook so much that it was 
almost inaudible, “ you’d forgive me.” 

He was trembling so much that he staggered, 
and held on by the rough stair rail for support. 
Masson, who had gone down two or three steps, 

43 


44 The House in the Hills 

looked up with warm pity into his drawn and 
quivering face. 

" Indeed/' said the doctor, “ I am telling you 
the truth when I say you have no need to give 
up hope. Your daughter is very ill, there is no 
denying that. But she is young; she has a fine 
physique, and we may well hope to pull her 
through." 

'■What do you call the fever, sir, that she's 
got?” 

“ Pneumonia.” 

"Ah! That comes of cold, don't it?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ That's got by being out in all weathers, 
looking after the live stock when I was ill 
myself. Poor Gwyn! My poor little Gwyn! 
If you knew what she was like, sir, what a sun- 
shine she is about the place, why you wouldn't 
be surprised at my taking on so ! ” 

"Do you leave her alone up there?” asked 
Masson. 

" No, sir. I was up with her myself all night, 
and her granny's been with her all day, till 
Gwyn herself sent her downstairs to get my tea 
for me. And to-night it's her brother’s turn, 
only he's afraid, the blockhead! ” 

" I'll do the watching to-night. But I should 
like you to tell her who I am, that I’m a doctor, 
and that there’s nothing to be alarmed about. 
She seems to be afraid of me.” 

" Why, yes, sir, I noticed it myself. I’ll speak 
to her. And thank you kindly, sir, for your 
offer. I won’t refuse. For you'll know what to 


The House in the Hills 45 

do for the best, for sure, and you wouldn’t let 
her die, a young thing like that, if you could 
help it, sir; that I know!” 

“ Of course not. But you have more to hope 
from her youth and strength than from any- 
thing I or any one else can do.” 

“ And now come, sir, and have a bite of some- 
thing yourself. You must be starved, after all 
these hours in the cold. Come, sir; come, and 
you’re heartily welcome to the best we’ve got.” 

Transformed into the most attentive of hosts 
to the guest who was ready to try to save his 
daughter, the farmer drew Masson into the kit- 
chen, where another figure, that of a thick-set, 
heavy looking lad of 16 or 17, now completed 
the strange party. 

Pie was sitting cowering over the fire in his 
rough shepherd’s dress; and, when told by his 
father to lay the table for supper, he rose clum- 
sily, pulled his hair by way of salutation to the 
guest and shambled awkwardly toward the 
dresser in obedience. 

“ This gentleman,” said the farmer, introduc- 
ing Masson, “is a doctor, and he’s promised to 
sit up with your sister, Tom. So you can make 
yourself easy, you can go to bed yourself and 
snore yourself hoarse.” 

Tom raised his head at this intelligence, and 
it was evident that he was much relieved in his 
mind by it. He saluted again and quickened 
his pace as he laid the cloth on the table. 

The old grandmother, meanwhile, sat by the 
fire in exactly the same position as when Mas- 


46 The House in the Hills 

son had first entered the house. And she 
watched the stranger in exactly the same way 
as before, moving her eyes, but not her head, 
and looking, now that he was less dazzled by 
the lights and able to take a better view of her, 
more like a witch than ever. 

The farmer, whose sense of hospitality had 
grown keen with his gratitude to the doctor, 
now insisted on his coming upstairs again to 
his own room, taking off his overcoat and his 
wet boots, and putting on a pair of carpet slip- 
pers belonging to the farmer himself. 

This bedroom, which was over the kitchen, 
contained two beds, like the other, and was fur- 
nished in the same plain and solid manner. An 
absence of the few small pictures and orna- 
ments which had relieved the severity of the 
back room was the chief point of distinction of 
the apartment occupied by the farmer and his 
son. Everywhere there was the same exquisite 
cleanliness, everywhere the same prevalence of 
whitewash. Here, as in the other rooms, the 
old windows had been filled up with bricks and 
mortar, and new ones, small, mean, latticed, had 
been introduced into the depths of the old mon- 
astic walls. 

Masson hurried downstairs after the farmer, 
eager and anxious to learn the history of the 
ring, which his host had promised to tell him. 

He feared, however, from the indifference 
with which he had treated the subject that the 
farmer could have but little to relate. If he had 
known of a tragedy connected with the fate of 


The House in the Hills 47 

its late possessor he could not have handed the 
relic so readily, so calmly to the first man who 
came to him with a tale about it. On the other 
hand, it seemed probable that Masson's inquir- 
ies would set the farmer thinking, and that grati- 
tude for services rendered to his daughter might 
make him ready to do his best to assist the doc- 
tor in his researches into the mystery. 

It was not until after supper was over, how- 
ever, that Masson got a chance of speaking upon 
the subject so near to his heart. The old woman 
had disappeared, had gone up to Gwyn, so the 
farmer explained. The three men had the meal 
by themselves. Nothing was now good enough 
for the stranger whose first appearance had been 
made so unpropitiously. The" farmer and his 
son both waited upon him, pressed him to do 
justice to the well-spread board, treated him with 
the utmost deference and courtesy. 

There was a fourth plate upon the table, which 
Masson supposed to have been placed for the 
old woman. However, when supper was half 
over, the farmer rested his knife and fork for 
an instant on the table and asked shortly: 

‘'Where's Merrick?" 

Tom, who was chary of his words, and who 
seemed also to speak English with difficulty, 
shook his head. 

“ I declare," went on the farmer, whose appe- 
tite had been so much affected by his anxiety 
for his daughter that he ate but little, “ I’d 
forgotten all about the fellow. Hasn't he been 
in?" 


48 The House in the Hills 

“ In and out again,” answered his son, laconi- 
cally. “ When he heard ” 

Tom turned his eyes slyly and shyly in the 
direction of the guest and said no more. 

The farmer turned to Masson. 

“ Too shy, the great oaf, to come in when he 
heard of a stranger being here, sir! ” said he. 

"Another son of yours?” asked the doctor. 

“ No, sir; but my hand on the farm. He and 
me and Tom does it all, ’cepting for the help we 
used to get from poor Gwyn, and a extry hand 
or so in the lambing season, and to get in such 
poor crops as we have up here. And now, sir, 
if you please to smoke, will you light up your 
pipe, and take this chair in the corner.” 

Supper being over, Tom cleared the table in 
the same awkward manner in which he had laid 
it, -and then disappeared, with half a loaf of 
bread in one hand and a heaped-up plateful of 
meat pie in the other. 

“ They’re pals, those two,” said the farmer, 
jerking his head back in the .direction his son 
had taken, as he went upstairs himself to take 
another look at his daughter. "Always hang 
together, do Merrick and Tom.” 

And the farmer shut the door between the 
kitchen and the washhouse with a nod to Masson 
which was meant as an apology for leaving him 
to himself. 

Left alone, comfortably seated in the large 
armchair by the glowing fire, which w r as built 
up of peat and logs, the young doctor stretched 
out his legs in a moment’s blissful ease of body, 


The House in the Hills 49 

a moment’s triumph of the frame over the 
spirit. 

Worn out by the long day’s climbing and 
struggling, straining of the eyes and stress of 
the mind, Reginald Masson sat inert, motion- 
less, with all his faculties benumbed, in a 
delicious, drowsy sense of peace. For a moment 
even his desperate anxiety about his brother’s 
fate was dulled; he sat back with his head on 
the old red cushion, hearing the roaring and 
whistling of the wind without listening to it, the 
hissing of the hard snow-showers against the 
window-panes, and the crackling of the fire as 
the flakes came down the chimney, and, melting 
as they fell, reached the glowing logs, which 
spluttered and then burned the more fiercely for 
the moisture. 

He closed his eyes, and presently, lulled by the 
warmth, the comfort, worn out by fatigue both 
of body and mind, he sank into a doze. With- 
out waking, he found himself undergoing a curi- 
ous experience; he felt, or dreamed, or fancied 
that he was dying and that the mourners who 
were to accompany his body to the grave side 
were bending over him, waiting for the end. 

He thought, or dreamed, or fancied that they 
grew impatient, that they called each other’s 
attention to the wind which was rising and to 
the storm which was beginning to rage, and 
murmured that they must make haste, make 
haste. 

He heard the murmurs with some faint sur- 
prise, but without any sensation so vivid as 


5 ° 


The House in the Hills 


horror or fear. And then he thought that a 
hand was laid upon his chest, and that it crept 
closer and closer to his face. 

At that point he thought that he cried out, 
and sat up. And then the murmurs ceased and 
the hand was withdrawn. 

Then he started up, and staggered, and looked 
around him, with the icy grip of a great terror 
on his heart. 

He knew he had been asleep, and he saw at 
once that his slumber must have lasted some 
time, for the fire had died down and he was 
cold. A great draught of chilly air was blow- 
ing in from somewhere, and he perceived that 
the door in the side wall by which the lad Tom 
had gone out had been left ajar. On the clean 
floor, in a direct line to and from this door, were 
footprints, still quite wet. 

The candles on the mantelpiece had been 
blown out before they had burned down appre- 
ciably lower than they had been at supper time. 

But the most uncanny discovery of all was 
that on the floor, beside the chair in which he 
had been sitting, there were some biscuit crumbs 
and a tiny fragment of torn envelope. 

With quick suspicion Masson thrust his hand 
into that one of his coat pockets which had 
been the most easily accessible, and, pulling out 
the contents, found that the scrap of paper 
exactly corresponded with the missing corner of 
a torn envelope he carried there, and the crumbs 
with a broken biscuit he had brought from the 
hotel at Trecoed. The rest of the pocket's con- 


The House in the Hills 51 

tents were equally valueless and nothing had 
been taken away. 

Nevertheless, he felt a chill run through his 
very bones at the certain knowledge that some 
person or persons had come into the rooms 
while he slept and had begun an examination 
of his pockets, which would probably have 
resulted in robbery if he or they had not been 
disturbed. 

Robbery! Would they have stopped at that? 

For, putting up his hand to his neck, he found 
that the white silk muffler which he had wound 
around his neck in place of his wet collar had 
been untied. 

The doctor, now fully aroused and conscious 
that there were dangers under the shelter he had 
found quite as great as those he had encoun- 
tered on the mountains outside, followed the 
wet footmarks across the floor and opened wide 
the door to which they led. 

At first he could see nothing on the other side 
of it; it was cold, it was draughty, it was dark; 
but he knew that he was not in the open air. 
He went back into the kitchen, lit one of the 
tallow-candles and carried it out into the cavern- 
ous blackness, into a mouldy, damp smell, and 
into a wide, covered space, the floor of which 
was partly boarded and partly paved in the 
roughest manner with broken stones. A store- 
house this, evidently. There were stacks of 
wood and peat; there was a built-up mound of 
roots, partly covered with straw and earth. 
There was lumber of all sorts besides, giving to 


52 The House in the Hills 

the place so many nooks and corners and hiding- 
places that Masson knew it would be unwise 
if not impossible to hunt out the person or per- 
sons who, he felt sure, lay hidden there, watch- 
ing him as he moved. 

For he could hear those slight, hardly distin- 
guishable sounds which betray the presence of 
a living creature in concealment. He looked up 
and saw that the roof was of rough beams and 
boards, through which the snow came here and 
there. 

'‘Any one here?” he asked. 

But no voice answered. 

He repeated the question in a firmer, almost 
menacing manner, and then a figure appeared 
in the doorway behind him. 

He recognized in a moment the farmer 
himself. 

"Why, sir, what are you doing in here?” 

The question, uttered in a genial, hospitable 
tone, struck warmth into Masson’s heart. He 
retreated at once into the kitchen, and turned 
toward his host a face which betrayed some of 
the sensations he had just experienced. 

“ Why, sir, you look as if you’d had a fright, 
that you do,” said the farmer, as he took the 
candle from the doctor’s hand, and lit the 
remaining one on the mantelpiece. "You 
haven’t got over your adventure on the hills, I 
am thinking. It’s made you nervous.” 

" Some one has been in the room while I was 
asleep,” began Masson, in a voice which was 
hardly steady. 


The House in the Hills 53 

But his host answered him at once. 

“ Yes, I came down very soon, to tell you my 
girl had fallen asleep. But as you were having 
a nap yourself by that time, I thought it better 
not to disturb you, as you were going to sit up. 
So I went upstairs again, and waited till I 
heard you moving about, or rather till I heard 
you call out.” 

Although the farmer’s manner and words 
were reassuring, Masson had the evidence of 
more than his eyes to counterbalance the effect 
of this statement. Pointing to the wet foot- 
marks on the floor, he said: 

“Those are not your footsteps, are they?” 

The farmer glanced down at the wet floor, and 
shook his head. 

“ No, sir, they’re not mine. By the size of 
them they’re’ Merrick’s.” 

And he went back to the door and peered into 
the darkness beyond. After a few moments, 
however, he came back into the kitchen, with- 
out having called to any one. 

“ He must have come through to have a peep 
at you, sir, out of curiosity,” said he. “ But, 
he’s gone back to his own place, now, I expect, 
for there’s no sign of him in the outhouse.” 

Reginald Masson was standing by the fire, 
with a frown of perplexity on his face. That 
remark of the farmer’s about the size of the 
footmarks had engendered a fresh suspicion in 
his mind. 

“ Is the man you call Merrick,” he asked, 


54 The House in the Hills 

abruptly, “ ever known also by the nickname of 
Coch Tal? ” 

“Yes, sir, that’s what they call him, by rea- 
son of his height and of his color,” said the 
farmer, in some surprise at the question. 

“ And you are Mr. Tregaron, and this is 
Monachlog Farm? ” went on the doctor. 

“Yes, sir.” The farmer stared at him with 
more surprise than ever, and added after a short 
pause : “ And how did you come to hear of me, 
sir? Wore you coming to see me? Or to see 
my little place? ” 

Masson nodded. For the moment he could 
do no more. Presently, when he had recovered 
himself a little, under the searching gaze of his 
astonished and puzzled host, he said: 

“ I was coming here to find this man Coch Tal. 
He was engaged by my brother, the owner of 
this ring,” and he pointed to his finger, on 
which the amethyst was now placed, “to guide 
him over the mountains, starting from Trecoed, 
six weeks ago. My brother has never been 
heard of since.” 

He paused, and the farmer, who was listening 
with vivid interest, uttered an exclamation. 

“ Do you suspect Merrick, sir, of foul play of 
any sort?” he asked in a low voice. 

“ I can scarcely say I did until this afternoon,” 
answered Masson in the same tone. “ But I was 
naturally anxious to find him, to interrogate him, 
to try to get some information to put me on the 
track of my brother, alive or dead.” 

“Yes, yes, of course.” 


The House in the Hills 55 

“ So I started this morning for this place in 
order to find and question him, and chance, or 
rather Providence, helped me to stumble’ upon 
the very spot I wished to reach.” 

“ Of course, you must see him at once,” said 
the farmer, turning toward the door. But he 
had hardly reached it when he turned and said, 
in an anxious tone: “You must see him with 
an open mind, sir, and not think ill of him 
because he wouldn't come in to supper. He is 
a great rough oaf as ever was born, and shy of 
strangers always. You mustn’t think that looks 
like guilt; that was only his awkward, country 
ways.” 

“ I shall think nothing of that,” returned Mas- 
son readily, “ if he is willing to meet me now. 
But he will not be willing.” He paused, while 
the farmer looked at him earnestly; “for he has 
met me already this afternoon.” 

“What?” 

“On the road from Trecoed, soon after the 
snow began to fall. At the first sound of my 
voice he ran away, and nothing would induce 
him to turn again and face me.” 

Mr. Tregaron frowned, and presently shook 
his head. It was clear that this last information 
had awakened fears and suspicions which he had 
not entertained before. He began to walk 
quickly, with short, rapid steps, up and down 
the tiled floor, just as he had paced up and down 
the little table-land outside when Masson first 
met him. 

Suddenly he stopped in the middle of his walk 


56 The House in the Hills 

and stared fixedly at the amethyst ring on 
Masson’s finger. Frowning more deeply than 
before, he presently looked up and met his 
guest’s eyes with the expression of one who has 
made a new and strange discovery. 

“Was he a minister — your brother?” he 
asked, quickly. 

“ A clergyman, yes, yes.” 

“ Then I saw him myself,” said the farmer. 
“Merrick brought him up here; nothing would 
serve but he must see the ruins of the old 
church ” 

“ Yes, yes.” 

“ And so he did. He examined them in every 
part, and then Merrick set him on his way and 
left him.” 

“ Left him? Is that what he said? Left him? 
But then, why should the man be troubled at 
the sight of me, at the sound of my voice, which 
evidently recalled my brother’s to him, if he had 
only set him on his way safely?” 

“ Ah ! That is more than I can tell you,” said 
Tregaron gravely. “We must ask the man 
himself.” 

“ He won’t tell the truth.” 

“Why should he not?” retorted the farmer, 
with some warmth. “ I don’t care much for the 
fellow, but I have never found him dishonest. 
And what motive could he have for telling you 
lies about your brother?” 

Masson was silent, but his looks betrayed the 
thoughts which were in his mind. 


The House in the Hills 57 

Tregaron looked at him intently with his keen 
black eyes. 

“He never set finger on him for harm, that 
I’ll swear,” said he earnestly. “What should 
he do it for? Folks don’t carry much of value 
about them when they go on the tramp among 
the mountains; and Merrick’s been going on as 
ever since that time. If he’d robbed your 
brother, he would have gone on the spree, and 
we should have noticed something. Don’t you 
see, sir? ” 

Before he answered, Masson happened to 
catch sight of the ring on his hand. 

“ You promised,” said he, “ to tell me how 
you came by this.” 

“ I found it about half a mile from here, at the 
foot of a steep bit of rock in the side of one of 
the hills,” replied the farmer. “ It was covered 
with mud, and I shouldn’t have seen it but I 
slipped on it and looked down.” 

“ When was that? ” asked Masson. 

“ A matter of three or four weeks back now, 
sir.” 

“You didn’t remember having seen it on my 
brother’s hand?” 

“ I hadn’t seen it, sir. I should have remem- 
bered it if I had, being so uncommon to look at. 
The gentleman wore gloves, I fancy.” 

Masson nodded and was silent. 

“ I can take you to the place where I found 
the ring, and you can search about as much as 
you like. But there was no sign of any accident 


58 The House in the Hills 

there, I’m certain. Finding this thing made me 
keep my eyes open, you may be sure.” 

“ If I could see this Merrick,” cried Masson 
abruptly. 

“ Sir, to be sure you can. I’ll go and have 
him out,” said the farmer promptly. “ I must 
just get my lantern; for it’s some little way off; 
he sleeps in a loft over the cow-house. And 
don’t be afeared, sir; we’ll find out the truth of 
this for you, however dark it may be, and how- 
ever hard we have to work to get at it. For the 
sake of what you’re going to do for my little 
girl ! ” 

As he spoke the little man put his hand up' to 
Masson’s shoulder and looked up into his face 
with his keen black eyes moist with feeling. 

“ Thank you, thank you a thousand times,” 
said Masson huskily. 

Then the farmer wrung his hand warmly and 
in silence, and, taking up a lantern from the 
corner of the dresser, lighted it, put on his coat 
and hat and disappeared into the darkness of 
the outhouse, closing the door behind him. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Reginald Masson stood beside the fire when 
Tregaron had left him, with his brain alert, but 
his heart sore with misgivings. 

This Coch Tal, Merrick, or whatever he called 
himself, could tell him all that he wanted to 
know about Granville’s fate, that was certain. 
What was equally certain was that he had 
strong reasons for holding his tongue. By what 
means could this man be brought to book? 
How could the guilt which seemed to be 
undoubtedly his be brought home to him? 

Masson’s first fear was that Coch Tal would 
take the farmer’s questions as a warning, and 
that he would at once find means to escape. 
And at this thought he ran toward the door of 
the outhouse, eager to follow Tregaron and to 
stop the fugitive. But although he was able to 
stumble across the rough, encumbered floor and 
to open the outer door by which the farmer had 
passed out, he saw at once that without a lantern 
he could not attempt to find the traces of his 
host’s footsteps. 

The snow was still falling thickly, in small, 
hard flakes, that stung the flesh, while the wind, 
which seemed to play round the ruins from 
every side, roaring round the stout walls and 
whistling between the stone shafts of the broken 

59 


60 The House in the Hills 


windows, whirled little clouds of dry, powdery 
snow like showers of spray against the sides of 
the farmhouse and blinded him so completely 
that his eyes could perceive nothing more defi- 
nite than big, blurred, dark masses of what he 
knew to be walls on every side. 

As he turned back, forced into retreat, and 
reflecting as he did so that even Coch Tal, hardy 
mountaineer that he was, would hardly dare to 
venture forth on such a night, a gust of wind 
bore men's voices to his ears. He could distin- 
guish no words; but he fancied that the tones 
he heard were those of fierce reproach, and of 
answering sullen stolidity. 

In another minute, the voices having in the 
meantime died down, or been borne away by 
the wind, two figures came suddenly upon him, 
and Mr. Tregaron's voice urged him to go in. 

Masson and the two others got back across 
the floor of the outhouse, and stood, in a few 
seconds' time, within the kitchen. There Mas- 
son saw, to his great disappointment, that the 
farmer's companion was not Coch Tal, but the 
lad Tom, whose face wore a sullen, forbidding 
frown. 

“ He has gone away!" exclaimed Masson at 
once, with excitement. 

'‘ Who? Merrick? No, no," answered the 
farmer, with a decided shake of the head. “ He 
knows better than to leave the shelter of a 
sound roof on a night like this." 

“ Take me to him. I want to see him now — 
at once," said Masson. 


The House in the Hills 61 


Again the farmer shook his head. 

“ I won't do that," said he. “ Give the poor 
fellow a chance to collect his wits. He was 
awful upset by what I said to him." Masson 
frowned. “Oh, don’t be afraid, sir; he has no 
thought of getting away. You shall see him in 
the morning. There’s my daughter to think 
about now. If you’re going to watch, sir, you 
had better go up. Or would you like a sleep 
first? " 

“Sleep? No! I couldn’t close an eye 
to-night," said Masson quickly. “ I will go 
upstairs." 

Recalled thus abruptly from his feverish 
anxiety about his brother’s fate to the case he 
had in hand, the young doctor ascended the 
stairs at once to take up his self-imposed duty 
of watching in the sick room. 

In a chair by the bedroom fire he found the 
old woman, wrapped to the eyes in a couple of 
dark check woollen shawls, staring with 
unblinking black eyes at the red coals. At his 
entrance she transferred her gaze, as before, 
from the fire to his face, and followed his every 
movement, moving her eyes without turning her 
head as he looked at his patient, and then took 
a chair in the corner of the room, whence he 
could watch the slightest change in her appear- 
ance or position. 

The girl looked at him fixedly for a moment, 
and then closed her eyes with a slight, uneasy 
frown. 

“ You can go to rest now," said Masson to the 


62 The House in the Hills 


old woman. “ I will watch and call you if I 
want you.” 

She stared at him while he spoke, but made 
no sign and uttered no word in reply. The 
farmer, who was still standing near the door, 
explained : 

“ She doesn’t understand a word you say, sir. 
She talks nothing but Welsh.” 

And he turned to her and uttered a few gut- 
tural sounds, which, however, elicited no other 
reply from the old woman than the slightest pos- 
sible contraction of her rugged eyebrows. 

“ She will sleep where she is, sir, in that chair. 
And if you want her, or if you wish her to take 
her turn in watching she will wake at the least 
touch,” said the farmer as he held out his hand 
and took that of his guest in a warm, hearty, 
fervent pressure, which sufficiently showed the 
gratitude he felt toward him. 

Then Tregaron retired, and Masson, from his 
corner, looked alternately at his patient and at 
the old woman. 

Wake her! Would she ever sleep? This was 
what Masson asked himself as he remained fas- 
cinated under the piercing gaze of the unblink- 
ing black eyes, which seemed to penetrate the 
darkness of the corner where he sat as easily as 
a cat’s would have done. 

The girl on the sick bed was lying very still; 
only her short, labored breathing betrayed the 
fact that she was ill. Presently, however, she 
began to grow restless; she opened her eyes; 
she stared at the doctor as he approached the 


The House in the Hills 63 

bed, in a half stupid, half wondering manner; 
she began to mutter indistinct words, in which 
the name of Merrick was the one most easily 
distinguished. 

“ I never liked him!” she said at last, quite 
distinctly, looking up steadily at the doctor; “I 
never liked Merrick. He knows it. I told him 
so. I told him so. Whatever he says, remem- 
ber that — I told him so!” 

Then, suddenly, her brain grew clearer, and 
her eyes took the expression of fear and mis- 
trust which had filled them on her first sight of 
the doctor. 

He offered her some beef tea, which she took 
submissively, but with a look of something like 
suspicion in her dark eyes, as she glanced first 
at her grandmother and then at him. 

And, suddenly, as he was feeding her, her eyes 
fell upon the amethyst ring. 

In a moment her face became convulsed with 
a spasm of horror. But before he could say a 
word to soothe her she became calm as rapidly 
as she had become excited, and, closing her eyes, 
lay back on her pillow without a word or 
exclamation. 

He went back to his seat very much disturbed 
by these things, and for some time nothing hap- 
pened to divert his thoughts. The wind howled 
and whistled outside; the old woman kept her 
witch-like eyes fixed upon his corner; the girl 
on the bed lay quiet and seemed to sleep. 

Masson sat back in his chair and pondered the 
strange events of the day and the singular sit- 


64 The House in the Hills 

uation in which they had placed him. There 
was matter for thought indeed in the develop- 
ments of the past two hours, and his mind ran 
quickly over the points at issue, considering, 
selecting, devising plans for the morning's 
procedure. 

For the moment he was lost in his reflections, 
when he was abruptly recalled to the life around 
him by a weird and uncanny incident. 

He heard a sort of hiss from the bed, and, 
glancing quickly at his patient, he saw that she 
was sitting up, with her eyes fixed on her grand- 
mother, beckoning to him silently. 

He rose quietly, instinctively keeping his own 
eyes upon the old woman as he moved toward 
the bed. 

The witch was asleep; or at any rate the 
unblinking black eyes were closed. 

As he drew near the bed the girl, never once 
withdrawing her gaze from her grandmother's 
withered face, raised her head as an intimation 
to him to bend his toward her. By a gesture he 
directed her to lie down again, and, bending 
over her, listened to her whispered question. 

“ Why are you wearing my father's ring? " 

Faint as was the whisper, it was imperious, 
not to be trifled with. As he hesitated to answer 
her she spoke again: 

“ Who do you remind me of? Why have you 
come here? " 

There was no putting her off, and Masson 
answered simply, without further delay: 

“ I came to look for my brother, who was lost 


The House in the Hills 65 

on the mountains six weeks ago. Your father 
found his ring on the ground, and when I 
claimed it he gave it to me at once.” 

The girl had slowly transferred her steady 
gaze from her grandmother's face to his. She 
now stared into his eyes with an intensity which 
made him shiver. For a few seconds she said 
nothing more, but so earnest and searching was 
her look that Masson felt unable to withdraw 
from her side. 

At the first movement he made as if to retire 
she stretched out her right hand warningly 
toward him and uttered these words in a terri- 
ble, deep -toned whisper: 

“ Don't stay here. Go. Go before morning 
or you will never go away again! ” 


CHAPTER IX. 

The young doctor remained silent and still by 
the bedside of the sick girl for some moments 
after she had uttered her strange warning. 

The moment the words had left her lips she 
had transferred her gaze back from his face to 
that of her grandmother, who, with eyes still 
closed and breath drawn as if in sleep, was sit- 
ting huddled up in her armchair, while the 
flickering firelight played upon her features, 
and caused odd shadows to cross them, so that 
they seemed to be twisted into a series of weird 
and hideous grimaces. 

Then he turned to the girl and spoke in a very 
low voice, with soothing, grave looks and 
gestures. 

"You must not talk, and you must not worry 
yourself. There is no need, believe me.” 

But the girl's face darkened with a look of 
great fear. 

" I know better than you,” whispered she, 
with a glance of warning. "You must believe 
me, trust me, and do as I say.” 

She was so much in earnest, so much excited, 
that there was nothing for it but to appear to 
fall in with her wishes. 

" Very well,” said he. " Since you wish it I 
will go.” 


66 


The House in the Hills 67 

He had not the slightest intention of keeping 
his word immediately, although this was the 
impression he wished to convey to her. But the 
sick girl was too shrewd and too deeply inter- 
ested in the matter to be put off so easily. 

She frowned, and looking once more at his 
face, though only for a moment, said in a 
stronger voice: 

“ Don’t play with me. I understand. You 
are trying to deceive me; you will not go! ” 

Alarmed for the effect this excitement must 
have upon her, Masson saw at once that the 
girl was no fool to be calmed by a few vague 
words, and answered her straightforwardly and 
honestly. 

“ I promise you that I will go as soon as you 
are well,” said he in the same low voice as 
before, instinctively glancing, as he spoke, at the 
old woman, upon whom the young girl's keen 
eyes were once more fixed. “ And that I will 
take every possible precaution in the meantime. 
And you must keep quiet. Remember, no one 
will dare to lay a finger on me while I am look- 
ing after you. Your father would take care of 
that." 

A look of intense relief and delight lit up her 
face at these words. She smiled, and gently 
moved her head in assent. 

“Yes, yes, that is quite true. I had forgot- 
ten — I hadn't thought " 

She stopped, and, even as her lips ceased to 
move, an expression of fear crossed her face 
again. She turned her eyes toward the door 


68 The House in the Hills 


and seemed to wait for something. Her ears 
were sharper than the doctor’s, for in another 
moment her father’s anxious face appeared from 
behind the screen which had been roughly 
improvised with some shawls and a clothes 
horse. 

“ How is she? Is she any worse? Didn’t I 
hear her talking?” asked he as he came quickly 
across the room toward the doctor with that 
look of hungry love in his eyes as he looked at 
his daughter which had touched Masson on his 
every mention of the sick girl’s name. 

“She is no worse,” said the doctor; “a little 
better if anything. The poultice I ordered has 
relieved the pain.” 

Then the girl herself spoke, looking up affec- 
tionately in her father’s face. 

“ I am better, father,” she said. “ Thanks to 
him! ” 

And she glanced at Masson. The father trem- 
bled from head to foot. His little brown, eagle 
face twitched with the force of the emotion he 
felt as he stretched out his small, hard, rough, 
sinewy hand toward Masson across the narrow 
bed. 

“ God bless you, sir,” said he, in a husky voice. 
“ Those are the sweetest words I have heard for 
many a day. God bless you!” 

^ It was he whom the doctor now had to calm. 
For his emotion was so strong that it threatened 
to break out into violent expression, disturbing 
to the invalid. He began to run alternately 
toward the bed and to the doctor with impetu- 


The House in the Hills 69 

ous relief and gratitude which would have been 
ludicrous but for the deep feeling which led 
to the child-like action. Masson laid a restrain- 
ing hand on his arm, which he found to be trem- 
bling convulsively. 

“Come,” said he gently, “ control yourself, 
Mr. Tregaron. This excitement is good neither 
for you nor for her. She must be kept quiet, 
very quiet, still.” 

The farmer glanced up at him, with tears in 
his eyes, shook him once more by the hand, and 
went quietly out of the room. 

When Masson repassed the bed on his way to 
his chair in the corner he saw that the sick girl 
was lying with her eyes closed, as if trying to 
sleep, but he knew instinctively that this was 
only a blind, that her brain was working rap- 
idly, and that she did not wish to be disturbed. 

He retreated to his corner, closed his eyes, and 
pretended to sleep in his turn. And after a 
time he had the satisfaction of seeing that his 
patient had really fallen into a light slumber. 
He, from his dark corner, was able to watch so 
well that he knew the moment when this sleep 
of his patient became sound, and he was able 
also to note the curious circumstance that that 
was the exact time when the old woman by the 
fire opened her black eyes again. 

From between his half-closed eyelids he 
watched her curiously. 

She made no noise, no movement, as people 
usually do who have awakened from sound 
sleep. There was no change in her attitude or 


7 ° 


The House in the Hills 


in the expression of her dry little wrinkled face. 
Instead of the eyelids, he saw the eyes; that was 
all. 

She looked first at the figure on the bed, 
always without turning her head; then at the 
doctor in his corner. 

Then, more like a bundle of old clothes than 
a living, breathing woman, she slid out of her 
chair rather than rose from it, all without the 
least noise, without so much as a shuffling of 
the feet, and glided slowly across the floor in a 
straight line to the door, without so much as a 
moment’s pause by the sick girl’s bedside. In 
the same noiseless manner she slid around the 
improvised screen and disappeared from his 
sight. 

He just saw the top of the door move, as it 
was opened a very little way; but every move- 
ment on the old woman’s part was so entirely 
noiseless that he crossed the floor hastily and 
looked round the screen, to be quite sure that 
she was not still in the room. 

But she was gone. 

Of all the uncanny sights and sounds, words 
and warnings which had fallen to Masson’s lot 
since his arrival at the farmhouse a few hours 
before, this disappearance of the witchlike, 
enigmatic person who had been his silent com- 
panion for the past three hours seemed to his 
excited fancy the most weird, the most 
alarming. 

Had she been awake all the time? Had she 
been listening to all that passed between the 


The House in the Hills 71 

patient and himself? The keen watch kept by 
the sick girl herself upon the motionless figure 
of her grandmother seemed to warrant this sus- 
picion. And as for the assurance he had 
received that the old woman understood no 
English, what was it worth in the midst of so 
much that was suspicious, mysterious and ugly? 

Masson looked again at his patient, who was 
still sleeping peacefully, and then returned to 
his corner and placed himself in exactly the 
same position as before, with his head thrown 
back and his eyes half closed, that he might 
watch for that unknown, ugly something which 
he felt sure must happen as a sequel to the old 
woman’s action. 

It was about half an hour after her disappear- 
ance, and even with the fears and dangers in 
his mind he was growing drowsy and dull of 
wits, when a feeling that there was some one in 
the room, rather than any definite sound, made 
him look mistrustfully at the top of the screen. 

And he saw the door open. 

Without moving, he watched between his half- 
closed eyes and waited. 

I11 a couple of seconds he saw the old woman, 
divested of her shawls and moving with the 
same gliding step, appear round the screen. 
The hand he could see, the left, she held in front 
of her, clutching at the empty air. With the 
other, which was still hidden behind the screen, 
she was evidently dragging some one else, some 
unwilling person, forward into the room. 

She stopped, she turned impatiently, without 


7 2 


The House in the Hills 


uttering a word; but her unseen companion, 
treading with a heavier step than hers upon one 
of the old boards, made it creak and rattle, and 
the sick girl started up from her sleep with a 
cry. Instantly the old woman disappeared. 
Masson ran to his patient, whose breath was 
coming quickly, and whose eyes were wide and 
wild with fright. 

“ Who was that? ” cried she. 

“ Only your grandmother,” answered Masson 
in a reassuring tone. 

The girl stared about her, panting and trem- 
bling. Then she pointed to the screen. 

"Only she? Go and see; go and see!” 

He obeyed her at once, looked behind the 
screen and saw no one. He opened the door. 
Standing outside, against the wall, with her 
unblinking black eyes watching the handle, was 
the old woman, alone. 

He came back into the room, and assured his 
patient of the fact. She lay back on her pillow, 
her features puckered with an expression of 
great uneasiness. 

“ You are sure she was alone?” 

“ Quite sure.” 

She drew a long sigh, and appeared to grow 
more satisfied. 

He gave her something to drink, and resumed 
his watch in the corner. 

Of whom was the girl afraid? Who was the 
unseen person, whom the old woman had tried 
to drag into the room, who had effected so rapid, 
so neat a retreat? 


CHAPTER X. 


Through the long hours till the morning Mas- 
son sat with tireless eyes. He had had too 
many alarms, too many suspicions, during the 
early part of the night to feel disposed for so 
much as a moment's rest. 

Into what den of iniquity had he stumbled 
among those hills which the mind instinctively 
associated with the peaceful and innocent 
delights of a pastoral life? Who were they, this 
group of rustics in their weird eyrie, warm- 
hearted, impulsive farmer, witchlike old woman, 
sullen lad? Were they all banded together for 
unlawful purposes? Or were they divided 
sharply into two classes — the innocent and the 
guilty? 

And what sort of a living could they hope to 
make by dishonest means here in the wilds, in 
these days of railways and the police? 

The more carefully he considered the whole 
matter the wilder did his conjectures become, 
the more unlikely seemed every conclusion which 
suggested itself to him. 

At last he gave up endeavoring to unravel the 
mystery, telling himself that with the morning’s 
light, with the ability to look about him and to 
make inquiries, there would come saner thoughts 
and a clearer view of things. 

73 


74 The House in the Hills 

In the meantime he had, at first, enough to 
occupy him in the condition of his patient. 

Partly, no doubt, as a result of the fright she 
had had, the girl became more restless than 
before; her breathing grew more labored, her 
cough more incessant, her complaints of the 
pain it gave her more plaintive, more frequent. 

With every means at his command, Masson 
combated each fresh symptom as it arose, admin- 
istered such nourishment as she could swal- 
low and watched with unwearied patience until, 
towards daybreak, she grew quieter, ceased to 
utter the mutterings which had denoted the 
uneasy state of her mind and sank into a peaceful 
sleep. 

Masson heard the sounds about the house 
which told that the family were astir, long before 
anybody came in to relieve his watch. 

When at last the farmer appeared he was over- 
joyed at the sight of his daughter in her quiet 
slumber. He wrung Masson’s hand again and 
again; he thanked God in a broken voice for 
sending help when he so sorely needed it, and he 
ended by dragging the doctor away and leading 
him to the front bedroom, which had already 
been aired and put in order for the guest’s recep- 
tion. 

“ There, sir,” he said, as he pointed to his own 
old-fashioned four-post bedstead, upon which a 
handsome quilt had been spread in honor of the 
visitor; “ everything’s ready for you to lie down 
and have your sleep out comfortable. I wouldn't 
have you called till all was ready. You’ll find 


The House in the Hills 75 

breakfast waiting for you downstairs — the best 
we’ve got; and then, if you’ll come up here, mv 
mother’ll watch by Gwyn to-day, and no one 
shall disturb the man who’s saved my daugh- 
ter’s life.” 

“ But we don’t know ” 

“ Ah, sir, don’t tell me! Trust a father’s eyes! 
She’s never looked like that, peaceful and sweet 
and herself, since she’s been ill. You’ve saved 
her, sir, under Providence you’ve saved my girl. 
And if ever there’s happiness to give for a good 
man in this world, it ought to be yours, sir, and 
it should be if my prayers could bring it to you.” 

The impulsive fellow was shaking from head 
to foot again, and betraying again the depth of 
the emotion he felt. He seemed to want to 
express his gratitude in some eccentric and 
extravagant manner, so that Masson had an 
uncomfortable fear that he was going down on 
his knees to him, or that he would fling his 
sinewy arms about his guest’s unwilling neck. 

When he got down stairs, however, where he 
found a bountiful and savory meal prepared for 
him in the kitchen, which was flooded with the 
morning sun; and when the farmer had apolo- 
gized for leaving him to himself, Masson won- 
dered, with a sudden chill down the back, what 
would have been his treatment at the lithe little 
Welshman’s hands if his daughter’s illness, 
instead of taking a turn for the better, had taken 
a turn for the worse? 

The wind had dropped; the sky, though not 
quite clear from clouds, was blue in parts; the 


j6 The House in the Hills 

sun threw shame on the blazing fire. Masson 
could not open the front door for the snow with 
which it was blocked, but he looked out of one 
of the latticed windows and saw a sight grand 
enough to be worth his journey. 

On the tableland where the farmhouse and the 
ruins of the old monastery stood, the snow, cov- 
ering rough fragments of masonry, lay crisp and 
sparkling in a hundred fantastic mounds. Be- 
yond, seen between a solitary ruined pillar on 
the one side and the walls of the old church on 
the other, was the valley below, with its dark 
line of rivulet winding through the cold white 
mass, and the mountains on the other side, where 
steep gray slabs and slender dark peaks relieved 
the veil of snow. 

The whole of the wild and picturesque, if 
somewhat confined landscape, lay bathed in 
such a strong stream of flashing sunlight that 
it seemed to lift a great weight off the mind 
even to look at it; gloomy thoughts and black 
suspicions lost their keenness, their force, in 
the physical joy of existence; and Masson was 
conscious that the sunshine and the brightness 
of the scene were at the bottom of it when he 
made up his mind not to be frightened away by 
facts or by fears, but to stay on at the farm- 
house till his patient was herself again, in the 
first place, and until he could meet with Coch 
Tal in the second. 

As for the girl's warning to him, he told him- 
self now that there was probably more of an 
invalid’s fancy than of sober, solid truth in her 


The House in the Hills 77 

fears on his account. Certainly, there were mys- 
terious elements in the household. There were 
suspicious circumstances to be accounted for in 
his own experience, as well as in his brother's 
fate. 

But the more he considered the matter, the 
more firmly he set his teeth, and told himself 
that he would not be scared away until he had 
found out, if not enough to hang somebody for 
the crime of which he believed his brother to 
have been the victim, at any rate sufficient to 
set the police on the track of the murderer. 

In the meantime he could safely trust to the 
farmer's interest in his daughter’s welfare to pro- 
tect him from the dangers which might possibly 
menace him under the farmhouse roof. 

By the time he had finished breakfast the first 
impression given by the warmth and the sun- 
light had given place to a sense of drowsiness, a 
clouding of the faculties which reminded him 
that he had had no rest worthy of the name for 
twenty-six hours and that he was in such a con- 
dition as made it imperative that he should get 
some repose as speedily as he could. 

He went upstairs, therefore, still without 
meeting anybody, peeped in at the door of the 
sick room, where the witch was sitting in her 
corner, and where the patient was still lying in 
peaceful sleep, and then locked himself into the 
farmer's bedroom, threw himself on the bed and 
sank at once into a deep slumber. 

When he awoke it was dark and cold, and the 
wind had begun to roar again. 


7 8 The House in the Hills 

And some one was trying the handle of the 
door. 

He sprang off the bed and turned the key 
quickly in the lock. 

It was too dark to see any one, but he heard 
heavy footsteps going rapidly’ down the stairs, 
and he followed in hot pursuit. As soon as they 
reached the bottom of the stairs the foremost 
figure darted across the tiled floor to a door at 
the back, which he opened and then slammed 
again in Masson’s face when he had passed out. 

“Coch Tal!” shouted Masson, recognizing the 
figure by its enormous height the moment that 
a ray of the weak daylight enabled him to see 
anything at all. 

And he opened the door and passed out in his 
turn. 

Coch Tal was still in sight, leaping over the 
obstacles on the rough ground as nimbly as he 
had done the day before during that long chase 
among the mountains. 

He turned sharply to the left behind the west 
wall of the ruined church, and traversing at full 
speed another open space beyond, ran up a rough 
ladder which was placed against the north wall 
of what had once been the hospitium and disap- 
peared into what was now a loft over the cow- 
house. 

Without a moment’s hesitation Masson ran 
up the ladder in pursuit, burst open the door of 
the loft and found himself face to face at last 
with Coch Tal. 

There was enough light left for him to see the 


The House in the Hills 79 

peasant’s face, as he stood just inside the door- 
way. It was flushed, lowering, desperate. The 
moment he saw that his pursuer had set foot in 
the loft he passed him quickly, unfastened the 
ladder and flung it out upon the ground. 

Then he folded his arms and stood towering 
over the other man in an attitude of sullen 
defiance. 

And Masson saw that in one hand he held the 
open clasp-knife with which he had cut the cords 
which held the ladder in its place. 

Masson drew back a step. He saw that he 
was caught in a trap. 


CHAPTER XI. 


In the first moment of surprise and alarm, on 
finding himself thus imprisoned by the man 
whose antagonism he had so much reason to 
dread, Reginald Masson instinctively glanced 
round him for some available weapon of defence. 

The loft in which they both stood was long 
and wide and very bare, the rough stone walls 
being much in the same state as in the time of 
the monks' occupation, and the roof being of 
the rudest and most primitive sort. 

In one corner was a small bedstead, in another 
was an iron washstand. This was all the furni- 
ture which could be distinguished from mere 
lumber. 

But as Masson looked, the setting sun, which 
had been obscured by heavy snow clouds, strug- 
gled through the mist, and shining in through 
the small west window of the loft, threw into 
strong relief the face and figure of the angry 
and menacing Coch Tal. 

For the first time the doctor was able to see 
him perfectly; and as his eyes met those of the 
mountaineer his fears died away. 

For this wild son of the hills was no dull, 
brutish creature, such as he had expected to 
see. True it was that the animal was strong in 
him, betrayed in heavy jaw and full-lipped 

80 


The House in the Hills 8 1 


mouth; true that the expression of his face at 
that moment was fierce, threatening. But in 
his blue eyes there was light, there was fire; 
they looked out upon the world with a steady, 
open gaze, the gaze, so it seemed to Masson, of 
an honest man. 

All the fear of the savage mountaineer which 
he might have momentarily felt melted away at 
once as he looked at him and recognized the 
charm which this rugged face must have had 
for his ill-fated brother. It was strange that 
this very first look he was able to give straight 
into the eyes of the man he had longed so 
ardently to meet, gave him his first doubt as to 
the man’s guilt. 

“ I am glad to meet you,” he said at last, after 
a pause, during which they had stood steadily 
measuring each other, eye to eye. 

Coch Tal never moved. 

'‘Well,” said he sullenly. “And what have 
you to say? ” 

He spoke in a rough voice, with a strong 
Welsh accent; but his tones had in them some- 
thing of the strange charm of his look and man- 
ner. His defiance seemed manly, not coarsely 
aggressive, and his eyes still looked out steadily 
as an honest man’s should. 

There was another short pause. 

“ I want,” said Masson at last, “ to know all 
you have to tell about my brother.” 

Coch Tal frowned. 

“You have heard,” said he, shortly, “from 
Tregaron all there is to tell.” 


The House in the Hills 


“ Not all,” returned Masson firmly, in a tone 
which showed that he did not mean to be put 
off. “ I have heard his version, but I want to 
know yours. You accompanied him from Tre- 
coed as his guide, remember that.” 

At this reminder Coch Tabs face flushed, and 
he turned angrily upon his questioner. 

“ What can a guide do when a man chooses to 
go his own way?” asked he shortly. “And for 
the matter of that you have no way of proving 
I was his guide, only my own word. He left 
Trecoed before me.” 

“ But you own you caught him up, and came 
on with him?” 

Coch Tal nodded. 

“ Yes, I do own that. I came on with him, up 
into the valley, and there he left me.” 

“ He came up here to see the ruins. You 
know that ” 

Coch Tal stared at him with the same steady, 
defiant gaze. 

“ Did he? Tregaron must have told you that. 
He didn’t come up with me.” 

“ What do you mean? You must have known 
he came? You must have talked the matter 
over with Mr. Tregaron?” 

“ What does it matter to you what I talked 
about to Tregaron? ” retorted Coch Tal sullenly. 
“ A man’s words in private are his own, as much 
as his thoughts are. All you can ask about is 
what I did, and what he did while he was with 
me. And that I’m ready to tell you.” 

Still, in spite of his sullenly defiant attitude, 


The House in the Hills 83 

of his rough and aggressive tone, Masson felt 
an instinctive liking to the man. It was all 
based upon what he saw, upon something indefi- 
nite in the mountaineer's personality which 
fascinated and charmed him. This man whom 
he had pursued as a wild beast, a brutal savage, 
from whom a guilty secret must be wrung at all 
costs, now exercised over him, in spite of his 
doubts, a mysterious charm. 

For a few seconds they stood again eye to eye, 
each examining attentively the face of the 
other. 

“ Very well, then," said Masson at last, 
noting even as he uttered the words the change 
which had come into his own tones. “ Tell me 
just what happened while you were together." 

“ In the first place," said Coch Tal, “ I caught 
up with him about a mile from Trecoed on this 
side, making for the hills here." 

“ He had engaged you beforehand," inter- 
rupted Masson. The man gave him a quick, 
inquiring glance. “ Oh, I know that, for he 
wrote to tell me so." 

A slight frown crossed the face of Coch Tal, 
who was silent a moment, as he apparently tried 
to fit in this statement with the facts in his pos- 
session, and to consider it from the point of view 
of his own advantage. At last he said abruptly: 

“ Oh, he wrote that, did he? And what else 
did he write? " 

“ Not much more, beyond saying that you 
were to see him safe through the hills; safe, 
mind!" 


84 The House in the Hills 

“ I saw him safe as far as I saw him at all,” 
retorted Coch Tal, sullenly. 

As there was a pause, Masson asked: 

“ And under what circumstances did he leave 
you? ” 

Instead of replying straightforwardly and at 
once, as, in spite of himself, Masson had begun 
to hope that he would do, Coch Tal for the first 
time looked at him askance, and, turning a little 
to the left, allowed his profile only to be seen. 

“ He wanted to climb where I told him there 
was no safe footing,” he answered at last, in a 
slightly evasive tone. 

And then he stopped. 

“ Well, you reasoned with him, of course? 
And, of course, he would trust to your experi- 
ence and take your advice?” 

“ No, he wouldn't,” retorted Coch Tal, 
roughly, and turning to face his questioner 
again. “ If he had, he'd have been alive this 
day ! ” 

An exclamation of horror burst from Mas- 
son's lips as he sprang forward and, regardless 
of the mountaineer's superior stature and of the 
open knife in his hand, seized him by the throat. 

“ Alive! He would have been alive! Then 
he is dead! You know it! And you know how 
he died! You saw him die!” 

As the young doctor blurted out these short 
sentences, in a low, throbbing voice that seemed 
to come straight from his heart, the other man 
turned a curious purplish white, and seemed 


The House in the Hills 85 

for the moment to be stunned by this fierce and 
unexpected attack. 

At last, however, he made a sudden effort, 
drew a long breath and wrenched himself out of 
the grasp of his companion, who, however, 
returned to the attack. 

Then Coch Tal raised his right hand, in which 
was the knife he had been holding. And with 
his left hand he made an imperious gesture of 
warning. 

“ Don’t touch me,” said he hoarsely. “ Don’t 
touch me, if you’re a wise man! You can 
squeeze lies out of a man, but the truth don’t 
come out like that! ” 

Masson stepped back, and staggered, though 
he was not conscious of the fact. 

“The truth!” gasped he, “the truth! What 
is the truth? ” 

To which Coch Tal answered, with solemn 
earnestness, as he dropped the hand which held 
the knife, and raised the other higher in the air: 

“That, sir, neither you nor me will ever 
know while the breath remains in our bodies.” 

His earnestness made so great an impression 
upon Masson, excited as the latter was, that he 
made no immediate retort or inquiry. But after 
a few moments of uncanny silence, he said, in 
a low voice: 

“ Can you expect me to be content with that? 
You have told me nothing, nothing. But you 
know more.” 

“ Not much more,” retorted Coch Tal grimly. 
“ But I can make a guess. And if you’ll come 


86 The House in the Hills 


with me, you’ll be able to do as much yourself. 
Your brother, as you may say he was — the 
clergyman — left me in the valley to climb up 
this hill by a way I told him was not safe. I 
never saw him again.” 

“ But Mr. Tregaron saw him after that? ” 

“ So he says. But I know nothing of that. I 
can only tell you what I know, what I saw,” 
retorted Coch Tal stubbornly. 

There was always behind the man’s strangely 
honest and reassuring manner this suspicious, 
undoubted reticence. 

“ And that was the last you did see of my 
brother — dead or alive? ” 

“ That was the last I saw of him, dead or 
alive.” 

“ Yet you took it for granted he was dead! 
How was that? ” 

The man was silent. 

“ Had you any reason to suspect foul play?” 

“ No more than when a man who can’t swim 
throws himself into the sea where it’s ten fathom 
deep,” responded Coch Tal grimly. 

“ You mean that when he left you, you never 
expected to see him alive again?” 

“ I may say I do mean that, aye, I may say 
that, sir.” 

There was a terrible pause. 

“ In fact, you gave him up for dead when, in 
spite of all your warnings, he persisted in hav- 
ing his own way and in going up in spite of 
you?” 

“ Aye, I may say that.” 


The House in the Hills 87 

“Yet, when you missed him, when he never 
came back, you did not even look for his body? ” 

After a moment’s silence Coch Tal uttered a 
short laugh. 

“ I don’t think, sir, as you quite understand,” 
said he in a grave tone. “ This place isn’t Lon- 
don, and the mountain ways aren’t quite the 
same as your paved streets. Come with me.” 

Although the ladder by which they had both 
ascended into the loft had been thrown down, 
there was another way out. Coch Tal pulled a 
piece of tarpaulin away from a square hole in 
one corner of the floor and revealed another 
ladder, more rickety than the outer one, by 
which he proceeded to descend into the cow- 
house below. 

Masson followed. The beasts, whose near 
presence had been abundantly evident even in 
the loft above, turned their heads to look at the 
stranger, and then went on chewing their cud 
at their stalls. 

When they got out in the open air, the sun 
was so near his setting that only a few red rays 
came struggling through the hills, dimmed by 
the gathering clouds. Coch Tal glanced up, and 
pointed with his thumb. 

“ There’ll be more snow before morning,” 
said he. 

Then he led the way among more fragments 
of the ruined buildings, to a bit of smoother 
ground beyond, which sloped gently upward. It 
was all one undulating white sheet, untrodden 
by any footsteps but their own. 


88 The House in the Hills 


Masson had begun to speak, asking some fur- 
ther questions about his brother, when Coch Tal, 
who was now walking by his side, called out, in 
a warning voice: 

“ Take care, sir.” 

And then Masson turned sick, and almost 
giddy, as he fell back a step. 

For not many inches from his feet he suddenly 
perceived a narrow chasm, not more than five 
or six feet across at the top, but some fifty or 
sixty feet deep. It was hollowed out and half 
choked with snow. And at the bottom, foaming 
and swirling among sharp-pointed green and 
gray rocks, ran a mountain stream, milk-white 
with froth and foam. 

“ Here’s one place,” went on Coch Tal, ener- 
getically, “ where a stranger might come by his 
death without a moment’s warning. And I can 
show you a dozen such. There’s been four men 
lost in these hills since I’ve lived here, that’s 
seven years. And only one of them’s ever been 
found. And if you want to know where they’re 
lying you must dredge Llyn Foel. And that’s 
bottomless, so they say! ” 

And, grimly shrugging his shoulders, Coch 
Tal turned away, and Masson shuddering with 
ugly fears, followed him. 


CHAPTER XII. 


The sight of the chasm, sprung upon his 
vision so unexpectedly, had had so great an 
effect upon Masson that at first he was inclined 
to take the view suggested by Coch Tal, and to 
believe that his brother had met with his death 
in some rash exploration, undertaken at his own 
risk and against the advice of his guide. 

Granville, though frail of physique, had been 
stubborn of purpose, difficult to advise or to 
lead. But then, on the other hand, there had 
never been in his character any taste for wild or 
rash adventure; he, in his delicate state of health, 
was the last person who could have been 
expected to lose his life in a mad attempt to 
climb to an inaccessible rock or to dash forward 
with such precipitancy as to lose sight of the 
fact that a chasm lay across his proposed path. 

Besides, the farmer had said distinctly that 
Granville had come up to explore the ruins, and 
then that Merrick had “ set him on his way.” 

And was it conceivable that a guide would 
warn a man that the path he was taking was 
unsafe, and then shrug his shoulders and leave 
him, and then trouble himself no further as to 
what had become of his companion? 

He turned, at this point in his thoughts, 
abruptly to Coch Tal. 


89 


9 o 


The House in the Hills 


“ So, when you saw him attempt to climb a 
path you knew to be unsafe, you went on your 
way and never tried to find out how he fared ?” 

Coch Tal frowned uneasily, and again looked 
at his questioner askance. 

“ I was only a paid guide and had to take it I 
was dismissed when he sent me away, sir,” 
said he. 

“ And you didn't watch him as he went?” 

“ I did. I watched him out of sight. And 
then he was safe, safe, I tell you.” 

“ And can you show me the way by which he 
went? ” 

“ I could, I can — as soon as the snow’s 
cleared away.” 

“ And this was after he had been up to explore 
the ruins?” 

Coch Tal hesitated. 

“ I suppose it was,” he said at last. 

Masson did not question him again. He saw 
that it was useless to hope to get at the truth 
among these people, who told him different and 
inconsistent stories, who evaded inquiries which 
they did not choose to answer, whose one object 
in speaking seemed to be to throw a mist of 
doubt and uncertainty about every fact. Before 
such a determination to hide the truth as he 
seemed to feel everywhere around him he felt 
that he was powerless. 

They had reached the back of the farmhouse 
before either of them spoke again. 

Then Masson saw Coch Tal glance up at the 
drawn curtains of Gwyn’s sick room. 


The House in the Hills 


9 1 

1 must go upstairs now/’ said the doctor, 
“ and see how my patient is.” 

Coch Tal frowned. 

“ She's better, they tell me,” said he shortly. 

“ Yes, she has had some sleep,” answered the 
doctor. 

He entered the house, and Coch Tal followed, 
with the same sullen and menacing manner. 
Just as the doctor reached the foot of the stairs 
Coch Tal spoke again: 

“ How long are you going to stay here, sir? ” 

Masson hesitated. 

“ Until she is out of danger,” said he at last. 

“ Is it her wish that you should stay?” 

Surprised by the question, Masson looked at 
him scrutinizingly by the faint light of a smoky 
little lamp which was nailed against the wall. 
There was eager interest in the man’s face, and 
something like menace in his tone. 

“ No,” said Masson. “ It is, her father’s wish.” 
Coch Tal looked relieved, but still somewhat 
suspicious. “ The girl herself told me to go 
away.” 

“ She told you that? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then I should go, if I were you,” retorted 
Coch Tal grimly. 

At that moment the farmer came out of one 
of the rooms above, and called to Masson to 
come and see his daughter. His tone was jubi- 
lant and eager. Coch Tal withdrew noiselessly 
and at once, and disappeared by the back door 
as Masson went upstairs. 


92 The House in the Hills 

He and Tregaron entered the sick room 
together. 

The patient was better; there was no doubt of 
that. She had had more sleep during the day; 
her temperature had gone down; the cough was 
less frequent, less painful. The doctor, at whom 
she smiled, but to whom she scarcely spoke, 
turned to the farmer with a reassuring look. 

“ She will do, now, with care,” said he. “ She 
must be kept quiet, and well nursed. But the 
worst of the trouble is over.” 

“ Then you can go away, doctor,” said the 
girl, speaking out with unexpected strength and 
energy. “ You had better return home at once 
and relieve your friends’ anxiety.” 

The farmer and Masson smiled at each other. 

“ Seems very anxious to be rid of you, sir,” 
said Tregaron. “ It’s rather lingrateful, ain’t it? ” 

But she frowned slightly, and again insisted 
on Masson’s going, so that to pacify her he said 
at once that he should start as early as he could 
on the following morning. 

“ That’s a promise,” said she eagerly. 

“ Yes, a promise.” 

Satisfied with this answer, she closed her eyes 
again, and the doctor withdrew with his host. 

“ I can’t thank you, sir, I can’t thank you, not 
if I was to live one hundred years,” said Tre- 
garon. “You just come in the nick of time, 
that you did; sent by Providence, that you were! 
But if there was anything I could do for 


“ There is,” cut in Masson, quickly. “ I want 


The House in the Hills 


93 


the mystery about my brother cleared up. You 
can help me in that, Mr. Tregaron; you can get 
at the truth, if any man can. I have seen your 
man Merrick ” 

“You’ve seen him?” asked the farmer, with 
astonishment and interest. 

“ Yes; but I can get nothing out of him; noth- 
ing at all.” 

“Ah! Well, you’d better leave it to me. I’ll 
leave no stone unturned to find out something, 
in gratitude for what you’ve done for me and 
mine, sir. And if you’ll write me down your 
address, I’ll send to you if I hear anything, or 
if I find anything.” 

With this promise Masson was fain to be con- 
tent. He began to feel as anxious to go away 
as Gwyn was that he should go. For he saw 
that, whatever was to be discovered, he would 
have to get outside help; and he proposed to 
put the matter without delay into the hands of 
the police. 

Gwyn would not hear of his sitting up that 
night, so he lay on one of the beds in the front 
room, while the farmer slept in the other. But 
the fact that he had slept through the day, and 
perhaps a certain vague, but justifiable, feeling 
of insecurity, prevented his closing his eyes. 

When the farmer rose, at 4 o’clock in the 
morning, and went softly downstairs without 
disturbing his guest, Masson sprang up and 
looked out of the window. 

And with deep misgiving he saw that the 
snow was falling faster than ever. 


94 The House in the Hills 

When he got downstairs in his turn, he found 
the lad Tom in the kitchen, looking as sulky as 
ever, and rubbing his hands before the fire. 

“ You'll have to put off your journey back, 
sir,” said he with an unprepossessing grin, as 
Masson went quickly to the window, which was 
almost blocked up from the outside. “ We’re 
snowed up.” 

The doctor uttered an exclamation of dismay. 

Upon his spirits there fell like a leaden weight 
the conviction that he was in a prison from 
which he would never get out alive. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


When Reginald Masson went upstairs to pay 
his morning visit to the invalid he found her 
sitting up in bed, supported by pillows, staring 
out through the window which was opposite to 
her at the falling snow. 

She looked uneasy and distressed. 

“What is this?” she asked, as soon as he 
entered the room. “ They say we're snowed up! 
If so, you won't be able to get away! ” 

“ Not to-day, I'm afraid,” said he. “ But I'm 
not in such a hurry to go. I would rather see 
you about first.” 

She looked at him earnestly. In this, the first 
sight he had had of her face in a natural posi- 
tion, Masson was struck by its beauty of feature. 
Refined by illness, her face had lost the ruddy 
brown of the peasant’s healthy skin and looked 
delicately transparent. Her large, dark eyes 
had in them a plaintive expression of anxiety 
which gave them an unusual depth and bril- 
liancy. Her magnificent black hak*, no longer 
confined in the formal coil of tight plaits which 
she wore when in health, was just loose enough 
to give a softening effect to her whole face. 

If he had seen her first at work about the 
house or on the farm, with her sleeves rolled 
up, wearing her natural expression of busy inter- 

95 


g6 The House in the Hills 

est about household trifles, Masson would have 
passed no other comment on her than would be 
expressed in the remark that she was a fine girl. 

As it was, however, she had for him all the 
interest of a beautiful woman met under roman * 
tic and singular circumstances. He was inter- 
ested in her, touched by her evident concern on 
his account. 

“Where have you come from?” she asked 
shortly. "Not Wales?” 

“ I come from London.” 

"Ah! That was where your brother came 
from! ” 

"You saw him?” asked Masson eagerly. 

She threw at him a frightened glance, which 
woke his interest anew. 

" No.” 

" But you heard of his coming? ” pursued he 
quickly. 

Again, to his impatience and disgust, he saw in 
this charming, attractive girl the same ugly reti- 
cence which had characterized Coch Tabs every 
mention of his brother. 

" I heard of a clergyman’s coming to see the 
ruins,” she answered stiffly, as if measuring out 
her words. 

And as she spoke, she settled herself down 
among her pillows, and closed her eyes, as if 
the exertion of sitting up had tired her. But he 
knew that this fatigue was only assumed, and 
he asked her another question, in a low voice, 
earnestly. They were alone together for the 
first time; the grandmother, whose presence 


The House in the Hills 


97 


acted like an evil spell upon Masson, was for 
once out of the way. Such an opportunity was 
not to be lightly missed. 

“ If you know anything, tell me,” said he 
imploringly, in a voice which shook with the 
emotion he felt. “ Nobody will tell me any- 
thing. But I must know.” 

How paltry her excuse of apparent fatigue was 
became in an instant abundantly evident. She 
flashed her great eyes at him, and repeated 
quickly, in the low voice she had used all the 
time : 

“ Must know! What do you mean by that? 
Is it a threat?” 

“ No,” answered he passionately. “ It is — an 
entreaty.” 

There was a silence. She closed her eyes 
again; and presently he saw rolling from under 
her eyelids two tears, which slowly trickled 
down to her pillow. Masson bit his lip. He felt 
that he was a brute to disturb her at such a 
time; and yet he knew that the agitation from 
which she was suffering could hardly be 
increased by anything he could say. 

Again there was silence. The big snowflakes 
fluttered steadily past the window, darkening it 
as they fell; the fire hissed in the grate. Pres- 
ently the girl turned her head. 

“ There is some one at the door,” said she, in 
a whisper. “ See who it is.” 

Masson crossed the floor very quickly, threw 
open the door and discovered Coch Tal stand- 
ing close behind. The peasant's face wore an 


98 The House in the Hills 

ugly, threatening look, as he met the eyes of the 
doctor. 

“ So, you're not going, sir, after all?" said he, 
in a strongly ironical tone. 

“ I'm going the moment I can do so," returned 
Masson. “ At present I'm told it is impossible 
to leave the house." 

“ Impossible! Yes. Especially for them as 
aren't in the mood to go," retorted Coch Tal 
fiercely. 

Masson, afraid that the man's angry and 
aggressive tones would reach Gwyn's ears and 
alarm her, closed the door of the room, shutting 
himself and his companion out. 

“ Do you doubt that I want to get away? " 
asked he quietly. 

“ Doubt it? Yes, I do. I doubt your want- 
ing to get away from her! " 

And he jerked his head violently in the direc- 
tion of the room where the sick girl was lying. 

Jealous! thought Masson, with his eyes sud- 
denly opened. 

And at once he set about allaying the excited 
lover's fears. 

“ I should certainly not have cared to go or 
have been willing to go while my patient was 
in any danger," he answered in solemn, profes- 
sional tones; “but I am happy to say there is 
nothing more to fear. Pneumonia is an illness 
which leaves one in no doubt when the crisis is 
past. She is mending rapidly, and now only 
wants ordinary care, not skilled attendance. 
Now are you satisfied?" 


The House in the Hills 


99 


Apparently, Coch Tal was not. In the dim 
light of the stairhead, where there was scarcely 
room for them to stand without touching each 
other, he went on staring scrutinizingly in the 
face of the doctor. 

“Are you a married man, sir?” he asked at 
last, abruptly enough. 

“No, not yet; but I hope to be one soon,” 
answered Masson with a smile. 

“ You hope to be married soon? You are 
engaged to be married ? ” went on the peasant 
inquisitorially. 

“ And may I venture to inquire what business 
it is of yours?” said Masson, not ill-humoredly, 
but with a strong sense that the line must be 
drawn somewhere between natural interest and 
impertinent curiosity. 

“ Well, sir, it's just this way,” retorted Coch 
Tal in a surly tone, “ that a man whose heart's 
full of one woman, if he's the right sort, don't 
go troubling his head about another. And so, 
if you're thinking of the lady you're going to 
marry, you won't maybe trouble your head 
about Gwyn Tregaron. But if you're not 
engaged to another woman, and if you're going 
to hang about here another week or so, looking 
after her and showing of! your fine London airs 
to her, and making her think her own folks aren’t 
good enough for her,” pursued Coch Tal, clench- 
ing his hands with passion and speaking in 
hoarse gasps, “ why, then, Mr. Doctor, you stand 
a fine chance of never getting back to your Lon- 
don sweetheart at all, and so I tell you.” 


100 


The House in the Hills 


From all he heard and all he saw, it seemed to 
Masson himself that his chance of getting back 
to London, sweetheart or no sweetheart, was so 
poor already that a difficulty or a danger in the 
way more or less hardly mattered. He was able, 
therefore, to reply with apparent equanimity: 

“You are troubling yourself very unneces- 
sarily, my friend. Just ask yourself whether a 
man who has a great grief and burden on his 
mind, as I have, is likely to have much time or 
thought to give to lovemaking! And whether, 
if he had, he would have much opportunity for 
it, in a place as full of inquisitive eyes and ears 
as this house seems to be! ” 

Coch Tal was silent for a few moments. The 
doctor spoke again. 

“ And where is your own pride, your own 
spirit/’ he went on, “ to think you could be cut 
out so easily? ” 

But at that the great peasant gave a long, 
shivering sigh, and seemed to drop at once into 
a state of absolute dejection and humility. 

“That’s it!” said he, in a husky whisper. 
“ That’s the worst of it. It ’ud be easy enough 
for any one to cut me out — easy enough ! But 
it would be a bad job for him to try, all the 
same.” 

He ground out the words between his 
clenched teeth, and glared again menacingly at 
the doctor. 

At that moment there was a knock at the 
wall, and he started back. 

“ She wants — you! ” said he, in a sullen tone. 


The House in the Hills 


IOI 


“ The poor girl is naturally curious at all this 
growling and whispering that’s going on out- 
side her door,” returned Masson coolly. “ IT1 
tell her you’ve come to inquire how she is.” 

“Aye, tell her that,” said Coch Tal, with a 
yearning look at the walls of the sick room, as 
the doctor opened the door and went in. 

“ Has he gone? ” asked the invalid, forming 
the words with* her lips rather than uttering 
them, and speaking with an expression of fear 
on her pale face. 

“ Not yet. He has come to know how you 
are. Shall I take him a message?” 

She frowned and shook her head. The doctor 
insisted. 

“Yes,” he urged gently, “you had better. A 
kind message. He is very anxious about you.” 

A light seemed to cross her face as a new 
thought came into her mind. 

“Tell him,” she said in a low voice, “that I 
am worse this morning, much worse.” 

The doctor stared. 

“ But I cannot tell him that,” he protested. 
“ You are much better. I have already told 
him so.” 

But Gwyn moved her right hand impatiently 
among the bedclothes. Evidently she was a 
young woman of strong will, who did not speak 
without intention. 

“ If you don’t give him my message,” said she, 
with some energy, “ as I gave it to you, and in 
my hearing, I will make myself worse in spite 
of you ! ” 

She glanced imperiously at the screen, to inti- 


102 


The House in the Hills 


mate that he was to obey her injunction at once. 
Much bewildered, Masson went again to the 
door and, opening it, spoke in a voice which the 
girl could hear. 

“ She fancies she is not so well this morning, 1 ” 
said he; “ but I hope that it is nothing more 
than fancy.” 

Coch Tal received this message in silence and 
with a frown. Then he retreated down the 
stairs without any other answer than a nod, 
while Masson returned to the invalid. 

“ Is he gone? ” asked she. 

“ Yes.” 

The girl drew a sigh of relief. 

“ Why do you tease him? It is not worthy of 
a good woman to tease the man who loves her,” 
said Masson, who had been touched by the 
rough devotion of the huge son of the hills, by 
the savage vehemence of his protests, by the 
gloomy surliness with which he had slunk away 
on receiving Gwyn's message. 

“ Because,” replied the girl in an agitated 
whisper, “ I hate the very sound of his footsteps. 
I hate and I fear him — more than I can tell. 
And don't — don't ask me why.” 

Her brows contracted, and the shadow of a 
great and awful grief passed over her face. 

Masson stood beside her in silence. What was 
he to do? He felt that the key to the secret he 
was trying to pierce was in this young girl's 
keeping. Yet he could not worm from her the 
truth which would be ruin to her lover, to her 
brother, or at any rate to some of her own peo- 
ple, her own kin! 


CHAPTER XIV. 


He was startled by seeing the girl open her 
eyes suddenly, and fix upon him an expression 
of eager curiosity and interest. 

“ Tell me, sir,” said she abruptly, “ something 
about yourself and your brother. Or is it too 
painful? ” 

“ It will be painful for you to hear, I am 
afraid.” 

“ No, no,” said she quickly, “ I don't care if it 
is painful, if you do not mind. I want to hear 
about something interesting, very interesting, so 
that I can forget — other things ! ” 

And again a spasm of pain and distress crossed 
her face. 

Although the doctor would rather have left 
the girl to quiet repose, he thought it better to 
obey her than to let her remain a prey to the dis- 
tressing thoughts which were evidently disturb- 
ing her mind. He sat down therefore in a chair 
at a little distance from her, from which he could 
see the snow falling outside and watch her face 
at the same time ; and he talked to her in a quiet 
voice, telling her such anecdotes of his own boy- 
hood and his brother's as he thought might 
interest and divert her, and marvelling the while 
at the strange series of adventures which had 
brought him to this singular situation. 


103 


104 The House in the Hills 

The girl listened until his voice and the soft 
crooning of the rising wind sent her to sleep. 

Then Masson rose from his seat and went 
quietly out of the room and down the stairs. In 
the kitchen he found the old woman, who vouch- 
safed no salutation in answer to his, but went 
on with her work of scrubbing down the table 
with the mechanical ease given by long practice. 

He wondered whether he was in the way, but 
was unable to make the suggestion. Not even 
a look or a smile did she accord him, but went 
on with her occupation as if he had been part of 
the furniture. 

When she had finished the scrubbing of the 
table she took up her pail and retreated into 
the washhouse at the back without the least 
acknowledgment of Masson's courtesy in open- 
ing the door for her. The doctor hovered 
between the belief that she was half-witted and 
the fancy that she was the incarnate spirit of 
evil. 

Left thus to himself, without even a book to 
occupy his time — for the whole library of the 
household, marshalled on the top of a cupboard 
in a corner, consisted of a Bible in Welsh, an 
old illustrated family Bible with the Apocrypha; 
a Moody and Sankey hymn book, two more 
hymn books, “ The Pilgrim's Progress," Bax- 
ter's “ Saints Everlasting Rest," and an odd vol- 
ume of somebody's “ Sermons." Masson, who 
became more uneasy and anxious to get away 
with each succeeding hour, tried the front door, 
but without success. He managed to open it, 


The House in the Hills 


I0 5 

indeed, but finding himself brought face to face 
with a wall of snow which he could not even 
look over, he had to close it again immediately. 

One of the windows was completely blocked 
up and the other was only partially clear. He 
went into the big, bare outhouse at the side, 
where he heard the footsteps of some one mov- 
ing about. It proved to be Tom, who started 
forward with a scared face on being disturbed. 

“ Hallo! ” said Masson, holding the door open, 
as he looked in; for the place was lighted only 
by a skylight, which was now blocked with the 
snow; “ you look as if I startled you. Can you 
give me a spade and let me help you? I’m 
dying for something to do.” 

Instead of answering, the rough lad passed 
his right hand across his brow, and Masson saw, 
with surprise, that he was shaking like a leaf, 
while the sweat stood out in glistening beads on 
his face. 

“ Why,” pursued the doctor, “ you look warm, 
I declare. It’s a sensation I should be very glad 
of, I can tell you ! Let me have your spade, and 
tell me what to do. I can handle one, I assure 
you.” 

But the lad drew back, trembling and shaking 
his head. 

“ No, no,” Said he hoarsely, stepping back 
quickly, and waving the other away with his 
spade, “ no, no, it's not work for you, mister. 
Get you back in there and shut the door. Get 
you back, I say.” 

He seemed to be terror-stricken, unable to go 


io6 The House in the Hills 


on with his work. Masson, curious, and anxi- 
ous to have some conversation with this, the 
only member of the household with whom he 
had hardly come in contact, put a brick against 
the kitchen door to keep it open, and advanced 
across the rough floor of the outhouse. 

Whereupon Tom, without a moment’s delay, 
flung down his spade, gave each of his shoes a 
sharp kick against the wall, ran across the floor 
past Masson, and traversing the kitchen with 
rapid steps, disappeared into the washhouse, 
banging the door behind him. 

There was not much light in the outhouse, 
and Masson stumbled as he made his way across 
the rough, encumbered' ground. By the time 
the lad had begun to run Masson had all but 
reached him, and had had to step aside in order 
that the spade should not fall on his toes. 

In doing so, he stepped upon a loose board, 
which shifted under his feet, and caused him to 
stumble and fall. His right hand slipped 
between the board which had moved and one 
which lay alongside. 

He regained his feet quickly, with a shudder 
and a shout. For his hand had grasped nothing 
but empty air. 

As soon as he recovered his footing he stooped 
down, and found that the boards upon which he 
had stepped had been laid across a hole in the 
floor about four feet across, the mouth, so he 
supposed, of a well. But it was too dark for 
very close investigation. 

By the side of this covered hole there was a 


The House in the Hills 107 

little mound of some white substance, chalk or 
lime, as he supposed, and in a cornet of the out- 
house there was another and much larger white 
heap. Tom had apparently been engaged in 
carrying the white substance from the heap in 
the corner to the heap by the hole in the floor. 

This was the result of Masson’s investiga- 
tions, when he found the light from the door- 
way blocked out by a human figure, and, turn- 
ing, found that the old woman was looking in 
at him. 

Now although he was in such deep shadow 
that to an ordinary eye he would have been 
unseen, Masson either knew or fancied that the 
old woman could see him as well as if she had 
been in the broad light of the sun. She stood 
for a few seconds without uttering a word, and 
when he advanced toward her, impatient of that 
ugly, crooked figure silhouetted against the dim 
light, with the unblinking black eyes fixed, as he 
felt, upon him, she gave forth the first sound he 
had ever heard from her lips, a harsh, faint, 
croaking chuckle, which was a very mockery of 
laughter. 

Masson turned colder than he was before, and, 
springing past her into the warm kitchen, drew 
a long breath of relief. 

There was another ugly moment to be laid in 
his record of his time at the farmhouse. Wet 
and cold from head to foot, he fell into a chair. 


CHAPTER XV. 


What he suspected Masson scarcely knew. 
But it was not only the shock of having found 
himself in a position of unexpected danger 
which caused him to be seized with a sensation 
of sickness and giddiness, as he staggered to one 
of the kitchen armchairs and sat down in it, 
trembling all over. 

What was the nature of the work on which 
Tom had been engaged? Why had he been so 
much disturbed by Masson’s appearance? Was 
there some ghastly connection between the hid- 
den pit or well in the outhouse, the digging out 
of the lime, and the doctor himself? 

The suspicion, although it seemed to him 
absurd even while it crossed his mind, took hold 
of him in spite of himself; and at the same time 
he began to entertain, for the first time, an idea 
which appeared to offer a solution to some of 
the perplexing problems presented by the singu- 
lar household at the farmhouse. 

Was there some sort of secret and evil league 
between the old woman and her grandson Tom? 

They were the only two persons about the 
place who were entirely unsympathetic to Mas- 
son, and he acknowledged to himself that this 
fact probably prejudiced him. But, all the same, 

108 


The House in the Hills 109 

the suspicion, once formed in his mind, grew 
stronger every moment. 

It was from the outhouse into which Tom had 
disappeared on the first evening of the doctor’s 
arrival that the footsteps had come of the per- 
son or persons who had searched his pockets. 
And it was the old woman who had tried to drag 
some one into Gwyn’s room when the doctor 
was supposed to be fast asleep in the corner. 
Was that unseen person the lad Tom? And 
had their object been robbery — and something 
worse? 

The more he thought about this the more 
likely did his hypothesis seem to grow. Coch 
Tal was at least, though professedly antagonistic 
to Masson, an open, and even a manly foe. The 
farmer himself had behaved straightforwardly 
throughout; he had treated his guest with con- 
sideration and gratitude; and on the night they 
had passed in the same room, during which Mas- 
son had watched him with steady, sleepless eyes, 
he had slept a sound and peaceful slumber until 
morning, evidently undisturbed by plots, secret 
plans, or coward’s fears. 

Besides, Masson, who, like most other people, 
believed himself to be something of a physiog- 
nomist, had from the first been predisposed 
against the lad Tom on account of his hangdog 
looks, his sullen manner and the repellent, low- 
ering shyness which caused him to avert his 
eyes the moment the stranger looked in his 
direction. 

While Tregaron himself showed his heart on 


I io The House in the Hills 


his sleeve, was angry at one moment, impul- 
sively grateful the next, his son, on the other 
hand, had never changed his sulky look, except 
when he had been discovered at his digging in 
the darkness of the outhouse. 

As these thoughts passed quickly through his 
mind Masson saw the old woman, after a little 
delay, come in from the outhouse, closing the 
door behind her. 

She cast at him one glance, in which malevo- 
lence and suspicion were easy to read, and went 
through the kitchen as silently as ever. Masson 
heard her go upstairs, and a few minutes later 
Tom came down with rapid, heavy footsteps, and 
burst into the kitchen with a scared face. 

“ Doctor, you're wanted; Gwyn wants you,” 
stammered he. “ She's took ill again, very ill. 
Be quick, be quick, or I'm afeared something will 
happen to her.” 

Masson hurried upstairs. The door of the 
sick room was wide open, and the old woman, 
with her arms folded, was standing passive, enig- 
matical as ever, in the middle of the floor. 

The sick girl was lying on her side, panting 
and gasping for breath. At the sight of the 
doctor she uttered a cry, and beckoned him 
toward her. 

“ Doctor,” she said, not in the feeble voice he 
might have expected, but clearly and firmly, 
“ I'm ill again, I think. Tell me, if you can, 
what's the matter with me.” 

But this was not easy. He felt her pulse; he 


The House in the Hills 1 1 1 


looked at her; he asked her some questions. 
How did she feel? In pain? In discomfort? 

Her answers puzzled him. She said she 
thought she was going to “ have her illness 
again.” She felt uncomfortable, restless; she 
had a worse pain at her chest than ever. And 
her hands and head were so hot; she was feverish 
again, she was sure. 

So he took her temperature, and found it 
normal. 

“ It is all nothing but fancy,” said he at last, 
smiling at her fears. “ You are going on as 
well as you possibly can; you have nothing to 
do but to keep quiet, and you will be quite well 
in no time. If you go on as you are doing you 
might get up for a little while the day after 
to-morrow.” 

But she shook her head. 

“ I am not so well as you think,” said she 
obstinately. “ Do you think I can’t tell whether 
I’m getting better or not? I tell you I feel 
dreadfully ill, as if I were going to die! ” 

Again she lay back and closed her eyes. 
Masson was rendered rather nervous and uncom- 
fortable by the presence of the old grandmother, 
who never once changed her position during 
this scene, but stood on the same spot, like a 
malevolent witch, watching them with her bead- 
like eyes. In the circumstances, it was difficult 
to speak as cheerily to the patient as he would 
have liked to do. 

“ Oh, no, no, you are not going to die! ” said 
he promptly. “ I never saw any one who looked 


1 1 2 The House in the Hills 


less like dying than you do. You have been 
worried, perhaps, or you have had a fright.” 

By the spasm which contracted her features 
as he made this suggestion, he saw that he had 
probably hit upon the truth. He glanced at the 
old woman with a frown. 

“ Is it your grandmother or your brother who 
has been frightening you?” asked he abruptly. 

But the girl did not answer. 

“ I shall have to speak to your father,” he said, 
with decision. 

At these words Gwyn suddenly opened her 
eyes again. 

“Yes,” said she. “We will speak to my 
father. I will speak to him.” 

She addressed a few words, querulously, in 
Welsh, to her grandmother, who, without mak- 
ing any reply, went out of the room. Then she 
lay with closed eyes until a few minutes later, 
her father came into the room, looking anxious 
and distressed. 

“What’s this, Gwyn, my girl? What’s this I 
hear? That you’re ill again?” 

He came close up to the bedside, taking one 
of the girl’s hands in his, and looking into her 
face with eyes full of tender, yearning affection. 

“Yes, father, I’m not so well to-day,” said 
Gwyn, drawing a breath which seemed to be 
labored. 

The farmer glanced suspiciously at Masson. 

“Doctor, what’s this?” he asked, sharply. 

“ She don’t look so ill, nor yet talk as weak as 


The House in the Hills 1 1 3 

she did! What’s this that’s come to her? Can’t 
you explain it? What does it mean, sir?” 

“She has been worried, alarmed, by some 
one,” said Masson. 

The farmer frowned, and Gwyn glanced from 
him to the doctor. 

“ I want,” said she, in a voice which now 
began to tremble a little, “ to speak to my 
father.” 

Masson proceeded to withdraw, but reluc- 
tantly. The girl was evidently exciting herself 
much more than was prudent. He gave a warn- 
ing glance at Tregaron. 

“ Don’t let her talk much,” said he. “ And 
don’t let her excite herself.” 

It was only too evident, however, that the 
interview between father and daughter would 
be of a harassing nature; for the farmer had 
begun to shake and quiver, as he looked with 
curiosity and suspicion first at Gwyn and then at 
the doctor. 

Masson left them together. 

About twenty minutes later Tregaron came 
downstairs into the kitchen, looking sullen and 
gloomy. Masson met his eyes with a question- 
ing glance. 

“ She’s full of fancies,” said the farmer shortly, 
“ mad fancies as ever came into a lass’s head. 
You’ll have to give her a quieting dose, sir, or 
we shall have her ill again, sure enough. And 
Tom mustn’t go near her, he must understand 
that; he bounces into the room, like the great 
gawk he is, and makes her jump like so she 


1 14 The House in the Hills 

thinks all sorts of wild things, all sorts of wild 
things ! ” 

And as he repeated these words, Tregaron 
fixed upon his guest eyes which were full of 
conjecture, and doubt, and eager scrutiny. 

Masson wondered what the communication 
was which his daughter had made to him. Was 
it some hint of an ugly plot which Tom, in a 
panic, had communicated to his sister? Was it 
something about the well in the outhouse? He 
was about to put a question to the farmer con- 
cerning that adventure of his, when Tregaron 
said simply: 

“ She wants to see you again, sir, I think! ” 

And then he took up his hat and disappeared 
into the washhouse. 

But Masson ran after him. 

“You are hard at work, aren’t you, clearing 
away the snow between this and the cowhouse? ” 

“I believe you! Merrick and me and Tom 
have got our work cut out. We’ve got to get to 
the sheep, if we can, and save ’em, if we can. 
As hard work as ever we’ve had in our lives ! ” 

All the more singular, surely, that Tom should 
have been spared for that mysterious work in 
the outhouse! 

“ Tom! ” repeated Masson quickly. “ He was 
at work indoors just now, by the side of an old 
well or something of the kind. I stepped upon 
the boards which cover it, and nearly fell 
through.” 

The farmer shook his head warningly. 

“ Dear, dear,” he said, with much concern, 


The House in the Hills 1 1 5 

“ you shouldn’t go walking about this crazy old 
place by yourself, sir. There’s pitfalls and traps 
for careless feet all over the place. That was 
not a well, sir, but a way by which they used 
to haul up provisions and such like, in the old 
monks’ days. I’ll show it to you some time, sir; 
it’s a bit of a curiosity, is that.” 

“ Indeed, I should like to see it. And in the 
meantime I hope you will accept me as a volun- 
teer, to help you with your digging.” 

“No, no, sir; that’s no work for you. If 
you’ll take care of my daughter and save her 
from fretting herself into a fever, that’s what I 
want of you.” 

“ But I could do both ! I could take a hand 
with a spade and go and see her from time to 
time as well.” 

“ All right, sir. You may do that if you like.” 

With this arrangement concluded, Masson left 
the farmer, and, returning once more to the 
sickroom, informed the girl of the plan he had 
formed with her father. To his surprise, she 
energetically forbade him to carry it out. 

“ I’m much worse than you think, any of 
you,” said she; “ and I want to live, for the sake 
of — my father. I’m afraid of the night, of the 
night. I’m afraid I shall get restless and fever- 
ish then, and perhaps be lightheaded like and 
wandering in my mind. So I want you, sir, to 
go and rest now, while they’re all out there dig- 
ging, and then you will be fresh to watch me at 
night.” 

“ But I assure you, Miss Tregaron, you no 


Ii6 The House in the Hills 


more need watching at night now than I do 
myself. If your grandmother sleeps in the room 
with you, surely you will feel safe and be able 
to rest yourself. ,, 

But the girl was obstinate, determined. 

“ I know better than you,” she said, stub- 
bornly. “ My grandmother goes off into such a 
sound sleep that there would be no waking her, 
however ill I might be! ” 

This statement, being in direct opposition to 
his own experience of the old lady, astonished 
Masson. The girl went on: 

“ And I feel certain I shan't be able to sleep at 
all to-night.” 

“ Oh, yes, you will. If you find yourself 
uneasy toward night, I can give you a sleeping 
draught ” 

But she raised both her hands in energetic 
protest. 

“ No, no,” said she, “ I will not have it. You 
must promise me, sir, that, whatever happens, 
you will not give me one. Promise, promise, 
or if not I will refuse to take either food or 
medicine.” 

Decidedly this was the most obstinate patient 
he had ever had, so the young doctor thought, 
as he found himself compelled to give the 
required promise. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


Masson was much annoyed with Gwyn for 
extorting from him such conditions. He felt 
like a fool as he went downstairs, opened the 
door of the washhouse, and making his way to 
the farmer between two high built-up walls of 
snow, told him, with much vexation, of the girl’s 
whim. 

Tregaron heard him in silence, and shrugged 
his shoulders sullenly. Coch Tal, who was 
working with Tom within hearing, leaned on 
his spade to listen to the doctor’s account, which 
he received with a derisive laugh. 

“Won’t let you help with the digging, won’t 
she?” said he in a jeering tone. “She can be 
thoughtful for some folks, for sure ! ” 

The farmer silenced him immediately. 

“ If’s she got a fancy we must humor her, I 
suppose, eh, sir? But to be sure she’s not at all 
like our Gwyn when she’s well ! ” 

“ W ell, we may compound with our con- 
sciences,” said Masson, as he seized a spade 
which lay near him. “ She’s not so ill as she 
imagines, nor in so much danger of a bad night 
as she believes. I can take a hand with you, 
and look in at her now and then, and if she still 
has the fancy to-night that we must sit up with 
her, we must all take a turn at it, that’s all ! ” 

“7 


1 1 8 The House in the Hills 


On the next occasion of his visiting the sick 
room Masson found the girl silent and sullen. 
She had heard his voice outside and knew that 
he had been working with the others. 

“ I told you to rest,” she said peremptorily, 
“and you had better have done so. For you 
will have to sit up to-night all the same.” 

She persisted in this whim and, in spite of her 
father's remonstrances, she made the doctor 
and her grandmother watch during the whole 
of that night, although it was clear to every- 
body that there was no further need for such a 
precaution. Masson got what sleep he could in 
the armchair, quite satisfied that there was no 
need for him to keep awake. And in the morn- 
ing, when he found her still on the high road to 
complete recovery, with a good pulse and a nor- 
mal temperature, he laughed at her fancies and 
tried to tease her out of them. 

But she was just as rigid in her attitude as on 
the preceding day. 

“ If I fancy I am going to be very ill,” per- 
sisted she, “ and if I fancy also that I am going 
to be neglected and left to myself, it is just as 
bad for me as being really very ill.” 

“ I promise you,” said Masson kindly, “ that 
you shall neither be neglected nor left alone, 
however wild your fancies may seem to us.” 

She flashed up into his face a sudden look of 
gratitude and pleasure which touched him 
strangely. In spite of the whimsicality of her 
caprices, or perhaps indeed partly on account of 
them, he found his interest in his patient increase 


The House in the Hills 1 19 

with every hour. The mystery which hung 
about her and about the household to which she 
belonged, the earnestness and passion which he 
had discovered in even so short and restricted 
an acquaintance, all helped to make an impres- 
sion upon him to which her personal beauty 
helped to give both power and charm. 

There had come to be a strange sort of free- 
masonry between these, too, expressed in an 
exchange of looks when he came in or went out, 
of confidence on the one hand, of sympathy on 
the other. 

Whatever there might be amiss in the house- 
hold — and that something was wrong some- 
where Masson could not doubt — this one figure 
of the handsome, open-faced girl stood aloof 
from it, shone out the brighter for her rather 
dubious surroundings. He was not without a 
suspicion, too, that this insistence of hers upon 
his constant presence in the sick room was a 
measure of precaution for his personal safety, 
and that the watching at night, upon which she 
continued to insist, was a manoeuvre by means 
of which she could still play the part of guardian 
angel during the hours which she judged to be 
the most perilous to him. 

However that might be, for the next four 
days, during which the doctor assured her that 
her progress toward recovery was steady, while 
she insisted that it was slow, Gwyn proved her- 
self a most obstinate and refractory convales- 
cent, refusing to sit up or to rise on the plea of 
weakness, and demanding constant attention by 


I 20 


The House in the Hills 


day, and the watching of her grandmother and 
the doctor at night. 

As Masson continued to help with the work 
of snow-clearing by day, and thus got no proper 
rest, he had become, on the fourth successive 
night of his forced and unnecessary watch, so 
utterly worn out by fatigue that he fell into a 
deep, dead sleep as soon as he had settled him- 
self in his armchair. 

He was awakened, after a short, wild night- 
mare of a dream that he was drowning, suffo- 
cating, crying for help, to find himself bound, 
gagged, blinded, and gasping for air. He was 
being lifted by the shoulders and by the heels, 
when he awoke. Helpless as he was, he kicked, 
he struggled, he turned over, only to fall out of 
the hands which had got him in their grip, and 
to fall with a dull thud upon the floor. 

At the same time, just as the hands were seiz- 
ing him again, he managed to utter a gurgling 
sound, and to kick out at some one or at some- 
thing, which fell with another dull noise. 

Then he heard a sharp cry; it was Gwyn’s 
voice. 

There was a moment’s awful stillness, and for 
that moment he found that the hands had 
released him. The next, they closed upon him 
again, and the cry was repeated. Again he 
struggled, he tried to speak; but again he was 
helpless, for his hands were bound to his sides; 
again he succeeded only in giving voice to a 
gurgling, stifled sound. 


The House in the Hills 


I 21 


Then hands touched him again, tearing at the 
gag which was suffocating him. With a strange 
thrill of wild joy and relief he felt that the hands 
were Gwyn's; he heard a long, sobbing breath; 
he felt her body trembling as it leaned over him. 

“ Leave him alone, leave him alone !” cried 
she. 

Again there was silence, a mysterious, awful 
silence. And suddenly Masson felt that the girl 
was being dragged away, and that she was fight- 
ing, struggling, in her turn. 

Writhing, panting, striving to free himself, 
Masson turned himself so that the cloth which 
had been thrown over his head got looser and 
looser. In another minute he would be able at 
least to see. 

But at the very moment that he had all but 
succeeded a rough hand pinned him down again. 
And still he heard no betraying voice. His 
assailants were as silent as the dead. 

Then he heard a strange whisper, close to his 
ear, and to the ear of the man whose hands were 
at his throat. 

It was Gwyn who was speaking; Gwyn, in a 
voice which sounded new and strange in Mas- 
son's ears. 

“ Listen, listen,” said she. “ He loves me — 
and I love him. He loves me, and he is going to 
marry me, marry me. You wouldn't kill the 
man I love! " 

There was a moment of horrible suspense, and 
then the griping, sinewy hands released their 


122 The House in the Hills 


hold. Presently a door was shut, and there was 
another silence. 

But Masson know, as the soft, woman's touch 
came again upon his head, that his assailants 
were gone; that he was alone with Gwyn. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


Scarcely had the sound of the closing door 
and the stillness that followed convinced Mas- 
son that he was alone with Gwyn, when he felt 
her fingers about his neck and face. In another 
moment the cloth which had been thrown round 
his head was drawn off, and he was able to see. 

He found himself still in the sickroom, at a 
few paces from the armchair in which he had 
been sleeping. But the corresponding chair on 
the opposite side of the fireplace, where the old 
woman had been accustomed to sit, was now 
empty. 

At first he could not see Gwyn; for she had 
got behind his head, which she had placed upon 
her knees, while her fingers were busy untying 
the towel with which he had been gagged. 

Her fingers were so strong, she worked with 
such hearty good will that in a very few 
moments his head was quite free, and he was 
able to speak. 

All the use he made of this privilege, however, 
was to utter “ Thank you ” once or twice, in a 
weak, faint voice. 

She bent down over him, gazing into his face 
with anxiety and distress, which touched his 
heart. Then, seeing him able to speak to her, 
she uttered two words, “ Thank God!” and 


123 


124 The House in the Hills 

without an instant’s delay set herself to untie 
the cords with which he had been skilfully 
bound. Her hands, which were large and 
strong and deft, fulfilled their task in an incredi- 
bly short time; untying knots and liberating 
each limb in turn, with steady dexterity, which 
left no time for hysterical outburst, or even for 
a kindly word. 

Once, however, she glanced from her work to 
his face, and the half-shy, half-bold look in her 
passionate eyes carried a secret of hers swiftly 
into his mind. And again, when she bent her 
head to unfasten one of the knots with her 
strong white teeth, while her long, loosened 
black hair flowed over his arms and breast, he 
felt her warm lips trembling as they touched his 
hand, and the knowledge the action gave him 
thrilled him through and through. 

At last he was free, and with a low cry of 
satisfaction she sprang back, and stood up, 
offering him one hand to help him to rise. 

But he found himself for the moment so much 
benumbed by the pressure of the cords which had 
so lately bound him that he had some difficulty 
in getting on his feet. When he succeeded 
the girl gave him one glance of passion- 
ate thankfulness and pride and joy. Clasping 
her hands tightly, but with a look which was 
still shy and modest, she whispered: “I’m so 
glad, so thankful! You are safe, quite safe, 
now! ” 

And then, having ascertained that he was 
indeed, as she said, safe for the time at least, the 


The House in the Hills 


!25 


remembrance that she was in her nightdress, 
that her feet were bare, that her hair was hang- 
ing in disorder about her shoulders, came sud- 
denly to her mind. Casting down her eyes 
hastily and biting her lip, she seized one of the 
shawls which her grandmother had left in her 
chair, and, drawing it quickly round her so that 
it wrapped her round from neck to foot, yet 
still with the modest affectation of being only 
cold, not shy, she seated herself in the empty 
chair by the fire, and with an assumption of 
acting mechanically, and from no mere self- 
consciousness, she put her hands up to her head 
and hastily twisted her long hair into a thick coil 
which she tucked into the shawl at the back of 
her neck. 

In the meantime she tried to speak in a 
matter-of-fact tone. 

“ You must think, doctor, that you are in a 
den of thieves, murderers !” said she. “But I 
am going to show you that you are mistaken! ” 

Masson made no reply. After the experience 
he had just gone through, how could he give 
her even a conventional assurance that he had 
no such thoughts as she suggested? 

“ You do think so, don't you? ” she asked, her 
voice breaking a little on this second question. 

Then Masson, who had been keeping his eyes 
away from her, in deference to the girl’s feel- 
ings, ventured a look at her face. Not that he 
could see much of it, for there was only so much 
light in the room as came from the red coals of 


126 The House in the Hills 


a flameless fire; the night light had gone out or 
had been extinguished. 

But even in the obscurity he could distin- 
guish the one fact that in the girl’s black eyes 
there burned a strange light, which transfig- 
ured her whole face and lifted her out of the 
dominion of common things. He stood before 
her, looking down at her upturned face as he 
supported himself with one hand on the mantel- 
piece, and felt as if in the presence of a queen, a 
saint, a heroine. 

When at last he found his voice it was very 
subdued, very earnest. 

“ I know,” said he, gently, “ that I am in a 
house which is honored by the presence of a 
noble, heroic woman!” 

At these words a long shivering sigh went 
through her frame and seemed to convulse her. 
He glanced anxiously at her and saw that her 
face was radiant with a strange joy, that two 
tears were glistening in her eyes. 

He was so deeply moved that there rushed to 
his lips some words still more enthusiastic, still 
more eloquent; but even as the first stammering 
sound came from him she put up one hand 
imperiously and checked him. 

“ Thank you,” said she simply, in a low voice. 
“ Thank you for your kindness. But what you 
are good enough to think of me does not alter 
what you think of — of ” 

She stopped, her voice shaking, her lips trem- 
bling. Masson then spoke, in the same low 


The House in the Hills 127 

voice as before, and in the same deeply respect- 
ful manner. 

“ I am ready to hear whatever you may have 
to tell me, about any one/’ said he. “ In the 
meantime you must remember that you are not 
strong yet, that you must — must get some rest.” 

She sprang to her feet. 

“But you,” said she, “what will you do? 
Where will you go? I — I — ” She stopped, 
drew a long breath, and went on in a tone which 
she tried in vain to make composed and indif- 
ferent. “ Of course you will be quite safe ” 

But when she got as far as these words she 
broke down, sank again into the chair, and, 
burying her face in her hands, broke into a pas- 
sion of hysterical sobbing. He put his hand 
firmly on her shoulder. 

“ Come,” said he, in a tone which he made 
determined and almost stern. “Now I must 
speak to you as the doctor. You must go back 
to bed; you must try to sleep; and you may rest 
quite sure that I shall look after myself very 
carefully till morning.” She was shaking her 
head, clinging with one hand to his sleeve. 
“ Come,” he went on in a gentler, more per- 
suasive tone, “ guardian angels, you know, must 
take care of themselves, if only for the sake of 
the persons whom they guard.” 

These words checked at once the flow of her 
grief. She looked up, still sobbing, but already 
putting some restraint upon herself. 

“Yes, yes,” said she, “I understand. And — 
and I will; I will rest; I will be careful. Only, 


128 The House in the Hills 


only tell me this; what will you do? Where 
will you go till morning? ” 

“ I shall go downstairs into the kitchen ; it is 
3 o'clock; I shall not have long to wait before 
some one is about. And I will be as prudent 
and as cautious as if my life were as valuable as 
my best friends seem to suppose." 

She listened eagerly, solemnly. When he had 
finished speaking he took her hand in his. She 
was still sitting in the armchair and trembling 
violently, but the firm grasp of his fingers 
seemed to exercise upon her a calming influence, 
and after a couple of seconds the clasp of her 
own hand was as firm and as steady as that of his. 

“ Good night," said she, in a low voice at last. 
“I won't say goodby. Take care. And — and 
to-morrow I will explain. Oh, yes, I can 
explain ! " 

She suddenly snatched her hand away from 
him, and he retreated and stumbled down stairs. 

But when he reached the bottom he saw, 
against the dim light which came through the 
open doorway of the room he had left, the figure 
of the girl as she stood outside, watching him as 
far as she could, a guardian angel to the last. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


Masson stumbled into the kitchen, which was 
quite dark, lighted a candle and sat down, not 
to sleep again, but to think over the fresh devel- 
opments of the night. 

Who were the perpetrators of the outrage 
upon him? That question, narrow as were the 
limits within which it could be answered, was 
as difficult to solve as ever. He had heard and 
seen nothing to help him to any further knowl- 
edge than this, that more than one person had 
been concerned in it. The probabilities were, he 
thought, in favor of the belief that the attack 
upon him had been made by the lad Tom and 
Coch Tal, with the connivance, if not the actual 
assistance, of the old woman. 

That Tregaron had had a hand in it he could 
scarcely believe. The farmer's conduct through- 
out had been straightforward, while the manner 
of the other three persons toward himself had 
been uniformly suspicious and bad. 

That their object had been murder he could 
not doubt. What plunder would he be likely 
to yield worth such a crime? That was the 
mystery. Surely some other motive must be 
sought; and this, he thought, could hardly be 
other than jealousy on the part of Coch Tal, or 

129 


1 3 ° 


The House in the Hills 


fear lest Masson should find out the truth con- 
cerning his brother’s fate. 

Here again there was a mystery. Granville 
had not carried on his person either much 
money or much property of value; certainly but 
a poor booty for which to run the risks attend- 
ant upon murder. 

Was there a taint of madness about any of the 
dwellers at the hillside farm to account for such 
apparently motiveless conduct? As a medical 
man, he knew too much about the strange 
manifestations which insanity takes to thrust the 
idea aside as untenable; but, on the other hand, 
he had seen no sign of mental deficiency of a 
pronounced sort in any member of the strange 
household, being inclined to ascribe the eccen- 
tricities of the witch-like old woman rather to 
ill-temper than to imbecility. 

As for Gwyn, he could not think of her with- 
out a softening of the heart, a glow of gratitude 
and admiration. That this girl had sacrificed 
her own comfort, her own rest, during the past 
few nights, he was now convinced beyond a 
doubt. She had feared some such outrage as 
that of which he had been made a victim, and 
had conceived the idea of protecting him by 
keeping him within the range of her own watch- 
ful eyes. To do this she had feigned illness 
when she was on the high road to recovery. 

It was she who had been the watcher and he 
who had been the watched during those nights 
when they had all been puzzled by the incon- 
sistency between her favorable symptoms and 


The House in the Hills 1 3 1 


her vehement complaints of pain and weakness. 

What could he do in gratitude to the girl for 
her splendid conduct, her unselfish care? His 
heart beat quickly and his eyes grew moist as 
he thought of it. 

And then he heard a heavy tread in the room 
over his head and knew that the farmer and his 
son were getting up. 

It was 5 o'clock and still dark. But before 
many minutes were over the door opened and 
the old woman came in with sticks and paper to 
light the fire. 

She stopped short and blinked, for the first 
time in his recollection, when she saw the 
lighted candle and the doctor sitting by the 
table. But she made no comment as she went 
down on her knees to her work, and then pror 
ceeded to prepare the table for breakfast. 

In the meantime Masson had heard the voices 
of Gwyn and of her father in earnest conversa- 
tion on the stairs; and a little later he heard 
the farmer and Tom go out by the backway to 
their early work. 

Presently the old woman disappeared. And 
he was left alone until it was nearly 7 o’clock. 

Then Gwyn came in. She looked pale and 
fragile, and she walked rather unsteadily; but 
it was plain that she was much further advanced 
on the road to complete health than she had 
pretended. 

The confirmation of his belief, and the remem- 
brance of the reason of this ruse on her part, 


1^2 The House in the Hills 

brought a lump into .Masson's throat; so that 
although he advanced toward her, and took her 
hand in his in greeting, he could not at first 
utter a single word. 

They stood silent, both deeply moved, for 
some seconds, until Gwyn, recovering herself, 
and reddening slightly, said, in a whisper: 

“ I want to tell you now — what you said you’d 
hear; the reason, the reason of — of what was 
done to you. It was very wrong, wicked, 
unjustifiable, of course, but they would not have 
done you any real harm. It was only a trick, a 
trick to frighten you; because of — of jealousy! ” 

As she uttered the last words she turned away 
and spoke shyly and quickly. Whatever he 
thought he considered it best to accept the sug- 
gestion without open scepticism, so he merely 
inclined his head. 

“ Of course it was absurd, most absurd. But 
they do not understand. So I said — what I 
did — you heard me, did you not?” Masson 
bowed his head in assent. “ I said it to keep 
them quiet — to — to get rid of them, in fact. I 
won’t apologize, doctor, for you know why I did 
it. You are going to marry me; that is to be 
taken for granted as long as you are here. But 
when you go away — and I will find means of 
getting you away — then I will tell them the truth, 
and there will be an end, an end of it all, of 
everything.” 

At the beginning of her speech she had shown 
some energy, but the last words she uttered in a 


The House in the Hills 133 

strange, dreamy, half-prophetic tone, which 
touched and moved him deeply. 

He came a little nearer to her and tried to 
look into her face. And as he did so the door 
into the washhouse was burst open by a gust of 
wind from the outer door, which was opened at 
that moment by the men coming in to breakfast. 

Both Gwyn and the doctor started; and as the 
farmer and Tom and Coch Tal filed in, and, 
after the morning's greetings, took their places 
at the tables it was plain enough by the expres- 
sion of the three faces that the little scene they 
had witnessed had conveyed a very distinct 
impression to their several minds. 

Coch Tal looked ferocious, gloomy and sav- 
age. He kept his eyes away from the doctor, 
and when Gwyn wished him good morning, he 
answered her only by a curt word, without 
looking at her or offering any congratulation on 
her reappearance downstairs. 

Tom, who looked more sheepish than ever, 
and who betrayed, to Masson's eyes, by his 
demeanor, that he had been one of the assail- 
ants of the night before, grinned, and pinched his 
sister's arm with an ugly, knowing leer. 

Tregaron himself shook Masson's hand in a 
strong grip, and said in a low voice in his ear: 

“ I've heard. I wish you joy. My loss will 
be your gain, sir, gentleman though you are, and 
though it's not for me to say so, perhaps! ” 

And Gwyn bit her lip as her father kissed her, 
and sat down in her place with a grave face, and 
without so much as a glance at anybody. 


134 The House in the Hills 

Only the old woman, who slid into her chair 
by the fire when the rest had taken their seats 
at the table, munched her bread and sipped her 
tea, and dipped her crusts and nibbled them, as 
unconcernedly as ever. 

The day went by uneventfully for Masson, 
who worked with the rest of the men at the 
snow clearing, and had little opportunity for 
conversing with anybody in private. 

The farmer, indeed, was the only person who 
seemed to be quite at his ease with the doctor. 
He was pleased and proud of the engagement 
between Masson and Gwyn, and he spoke freely 
of the comfort it gave him to think of his little 
girl’s being settled in life, with a “ real gentle- 
man, and one who had saved her life,” to take 
care of her. He said how much he should miss 
her himself, and how sorry he was that she 
would go so far away. 

“ But, then,” he added, with a shrewd shake 
of the head, “ maybe it’s as well. After all, 
though, you’re too much of a gentleman to be 
ashamed of us, still we’re not grand enough 
folks for you, sir, when all is said and done. 
It’s only our Gwyn that’s fit for you, and there’s 
the truth.” 

Masson found these remarks rather hard to 
reply to, but he listened and made such feeble 
comments as he could. He noted, while he 
spoke, the piercing eyes of Coch Tal fixed upon 
him with a penetrating shrewdness which 
seemed to suggest that the huge, red-bearded 


The House in the Hills 135 

son of the mountains guessed more than Tre- 
garon himself did. 

Or was it that he knew more? 

It was not until supper time that he had a 
chance of speaking again to Gwyn alone. He 
had been working hard out of doors all day, and 
she had kept out of his way when he entered 
the house at meal times. But he happened to 
enter the kitchen before the other men, and as 
he did so he met Gwyn coming down stairs. 

“ Where will you sleep to-night?” she asked 
abruptly, in a tone which betrayed that this 
question had been troubling her. 

Masson hesitated. Then a thought struck 
him. 

“ In the loft with Merrick, if he'll let me,” he 
answered at last. ' 

But Gwyn was startled by the proposal. 

“ No, no,” said she, “you must not; let me 
think! ” 

She put her hands up to her head, as if dis- 
tracted by terrible thoughts and fears. But 
Masson smiled confidently into her face. 

• “You will never think of anything better than 
that,” said he gently. “ Give me an acknowl- 
edged enemy rather than a treacherous friend.” 

“What do you mean? Whom do you mean 
by ‘ a treacherous friend ' ? ” 

“ I mean no one in particular,” answered 
Masson. “ But Merrick is the only person who 
has shown me open antagonism and, at the same 
time, he is the sort of man to whom I could 
trust myself.” 


136 The House in the Hills 

She seemed much struck by these words and 
she looked into his face attentively after he had 
uttered them. 

“ Perhaps you are right/’ she said at last, in a 
hesitating voice. “ You are wiser than I am, of 
course, sir.” 

He opened the door of the kitchen, where they 
now heard the voices of the others, and followed 
her in. 

Coch Tal, who had begun his supper, scowled 
at them both. 

Masson sat down beside him, and at once 
opened the matter to him by requesting permis- 
sion to sleep in a corner of his loft. The peasant 
stared at him in undisguised surprise. 

“With me, mister!” cried he in rough, jeer- 
ing tones. “ Why, sure you wouldn’t find any 
feather beds there, nor yet no pillows soft 
enough for your liking! ” 

“ I think a board and a brick would be soft 
enough for me to-night! ” returned the young 
doctor good-humoredly. “ And the roof over- 
head is all the luxury I want.” 

The farmer had begun to protest and to offer 
his own room. But Masson would not hear of 
it. In the midst of the dispute between them, 
Coch Tal’s deep voice bawled out, as he glanced 
first at Gwyn and then at Masson : 

“ All right, sir. You can share my loft, if you 
like.” 

And, in spite of the farmer’s angry and 
offended objections, the matter was settled thus. 

Everybody was so thoroughly tired out by the 


The House in the Hills I 37 

hard work of the day that, after sitting, stupidly, 
almost in silence, for a few minutes, when 
supper was over, they dispersed in search of rest. 

Masson went straight to the loft, while Mer- 
rick went to the sheds for a last look at some 
sheep they had rescued that day from the open 
hillside, where they had been blockaded by the 
snow. 

Before Coch Tal reached the loft in his turn 
Masson was fast asleep. 

He was roused ten minutes later by a rough, 
fierce shake, and starting up he found Coch Tal 
bending over him, with a savage scowl upon 
his face. In one hand he held a wood chopper, 
and with the other he was still clutching the 
doctor's arm. 

a Wake up!” cried he, roughly. “ Wake 
up!” I've got guilt enough on my soul. I 
don't want to kill a sleeping man! Wake up! 
Get up ! And help me to keep the devil down ! ” 

And even as he spoke he raised the axe above 
his head, and clenched his teeth in a look of 
fierce, burning hatred. 

In the flickering, misty light of the smoking 
tallow candle he looked like a demon, Masson 
thought as he staggered to his feet. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


“ Devil? ” 

Masson stammered out the word, repeating it 
from Coch Tal’s speech, as the huge moun- 
taineer stepped back, and glared at him with 
glowing eyes. 

Aroused thus suddenly, Masson, who had 
fallen into a sound and dreamless sleep, almost 
thought for the moment that it was some emis- 
sary from the sulphurous regions of hell who 
thundered these threatening words in his ear. 
The next moment, coming to himself, and 
remembering the facts of his position, he 
stretched his limbs, almost with unconcern, 
under the very nose of his antagonist. 

“ Look here/' said he at last, in a voice which 
was still sleepy, still weary, looking, as he spoke, 
straight into the angry eyes of the other man, 
“ Fm dead beat; I’m absolutely without means 
of defence, if you choose to attack me. And 
Tve had such a pretty time of it since Pve been 
in this hole of a place that, upon my word, I 
don't much care whether you knock out my 
brains or not ! ” 

And with these words he sat down on a 
wooden packing case which served both as a 
seat and a table and dropped his head listlessly 
into his hands. 


The House in the Hills 139 

He heard Coch Tal's labored breathing, heard 
him throw down the axe with a force which 
made the flooring rattle, heard him pace up and 
down the bare floor with slow and heavy steps. 
And he heard also the snorting of the cattle in 
the shed below, and the stamping of the hoofs 
of one restless beast, startled by the noise above. 

But all these sounds seemed to come to him 
from a long way off, and to rouse in Masson no 
interest, no thought. He was, as he said, so 
tired, so much accustomed to sensational alarms, 
that now the noise made by the angry man 
moved him no more than that made by the dis- 
turbed cattle; and, yawning as he sat, he almost 
dozed before the sonorous tones of the peasant 
uttered words which suddenly woke him into 
full consciousness. 

“ Sir,” said Coch Tal, in a deep, vibrating 
voice, as he stopped short in front of the doctor 
and put one hand upon him with a strong grip, 
“ your brains are safe enough. I’d have liked 
to fight you, fair and square, man to man; Fd 
have liked it dearly.” And as he spoke his eyes 
blazed again and he clenched his teeth, as a 
wave of hatred seemed to pass over him. He 
suddenly released Masson's shoulder and 
stepped back, as if afraid that his self-control 
would give way. “ But if you take it like that, 
and if you don't care what becomes of you, why, 
I can do nothing.” 

And in his turn he sat down, choosing the end 
of his bedstead for a seat and nursing his crossed 
leg gloomily. 


140 The House in the Hills 

Masson looked at him attentively. 

“ Why should you want to fight me?” asked 
he. “ Come, tell me the truth. I’m at your 
mercy up here, you know. Tell me the truth 
and have done with it, and then throw me over 
into one of the ravines or crevasses you have up 
here, which you find so convenient for the acci- 
dental disappearance of rash travellers who for 
some reason or other are better out of the way! ” 

Masson knew these words were an insult of 
the grossest kind, but he did not care. The 
dangers which surrounded him on every side 
made him reckless. If they chose to serve him 
as they had undoubtedly served his brother he 
could not help it, and at least he would have the 
satisfaction of braving them to their face. 

So he did not even look up as he spoke to note 
the effect of his words. He did raise his head, 
however, when Coch Tal answered, not in the 
tones of fierce defiance he had expected to hear, 
but in an awestruck, reproachful voice. 

“ Sir, you never hear anything but the truth 
from me, believe me. Not all the truth, some- 
times; I dursn't always tell you all. But I 
never tell you no lies, and that's a true word.” 

“ Well,” said Masson, in a less antagonistic 
tone, “ will you tell me, then, why you want to 
fight me?” 

“ Yes, sir, I may tell you that.” 

But he paused again. 

“Is it on account of my poor brother? And 
what I have said to you about him?” 

“ No, sir, it ain't nothing to do with him,” 


The House in the Hills 14 1 

answered Coch Tal, in a sorrowful tone. “ It’s 
because of Gwyn.” 

“ Ah!" 

The doctor raised his head; the desire for 
sleep had by this time been chased away, and he 
listened as earnestly as Coch Tal could wish. 

“ And what have I done that you should want 
to fight me on her account?" 

The veins in the peasant’s face began to swell, 
and he clenched his fists convulsively. 

“What have you done? What haven’t you 
done, sir, in the way of bringing misery and 
ruin and trouble to her? What have you done! 
Ha, ha, ha! " 

He uttered a short, hard laugh, and then was 
suddenly silent. Masson stared at him with 
astonishment and apprehension. 

“ Why, man," said he at last, “ what mad 
notion have you got in your head? Because you 
love this girl yourself, why must you imagine 
that no other man can come near her without 
loving her? Your love and jealousy make you 
mad, and blind, and deaf to reason. She and I 
have been merely doctor and patient, and noth- 
ing more." 

“You fool! Clever as you may be, and gen- 
tleman and doctor, too, you are no better than a 
fool where a woman comes in! " cried Coch Tal 
savagely, staring at him, with his head protrud- 
ing and his eyes on fire. “ Merely doctor and 
patient! Ha, ha, ha! Poor lass, poor lass!" 
Masson looked at him in ever-increasing 


142 The House in the Hills 

amazement. How far had Coch Tabs insane 
doubts and fears carried him? 

“ Don't you know," said he at last, ignoring 
the peasant's abuse and trying to bring him to 
facts, “ what Gwyn told her father? You heard, 
I am sure! " 

“ Heard! Yes, I heard!" retorted Merrick 
sullenly and contemptuously. “ I heard her say 
you and her were engaged to marry. But I 
knew that it was only a blind ; she only said it 
to get you away with a whole skin. Oh, I knew 
that." 

“Then what are you troubling your head 
about? If you are satisfied that I have never 
made love to her, and that what she said was 
said only to help me to get safely away, what 
in the world have you to grumble about! " 

“ That is what I've got to grumble about," 
retorted Coch Tal emphatically. “ That it is all 
a make-up, a make-believe; that you care no 
more for her than if she was the grass under 
your feet, and that you'll go away with a light 
heart and a free conscience, and leave my poor 
girl to eat her heart out here in the hills, with 
never so much as a thought for her!" 

Again Masson stared. 

“ How often am I to tell you," said he, “ that 
there has never been a question of love between 
us? I honor and respect and admire her as a 
good, true, splendid woman. But that is not at 
all like the feeling you have for her " 

Coch Tal interrupted him, throwing back his 


The House in the Hills 143 

head and showing a face down which the tears 
were chasing each other. 

“ No, mister,” said he in a trembling voice, 
“ it’s not the feeling I have for her. And no 
more it is the feeling she has for you.” 

Masson was struck dumb. The man spoke 
with the earnestness of strong conviction, and 
in a voice eloquent of many and deep emotions. 
After a short pause he went on : 

“ Sir, it's you that’s been blind, not me. Loye 
like what I have for Gwyn don’t make a mat* 
blind; it makes him see better and clearer than 
he did afore. I knew when you came it meant 
danger for her — and for me! I felt it, sir, down 
in my very bones. It’s superstition, they say, 
don’t they, to know things are going to happen 
afore they come? Well, superstition it may be, 
but it helps as much as another thing. And I 
knew it as plain that night you came as if I’d 
read it in the great book. I knew you’d come 
to steal my girl’s heart away, and that you’d 
care no more for what you’d got than I do for 
the cattle I tend and feed.” 

Upon these words he broke down, and his 
voice became husky with suppressed sobs. An 
awful touching sight it was, this breakdown of 
the strong, fierce mountaineer, this melting of 
defiance and dogged animosity under the fire of 
the passion which consumed him. Masson was 
touched to the quick. 

“ Merrick,” said he, gravely, “ I never guessed 
this; I hope now it is not true.” 

" It’s no use hoping,” retorted Coch Tal with 


144 The House in the Hills 

energy, '‘ because I'm not guessing; I’m telling 
you what’s true, what I know. And I don’t 
even say you’re to blame; I don’t suppose you 
are! You’re a gentleman, and you’re handsome, 
and soft-spoken, and your hands are white and 
soft, almost like a woman’s, and whiter than 
our women’s by a long way. And she knew 
you were in danger here ” 

“ Why should she know that?” asked Masson 
eagerly. 

But the peasant grew more reserved at once. 

“Well, you’ve said so yourself,” said he 
roughly, “ and I suppose you know. Anyhow, 
she thought you weren’t safe, I suppose, and 
that makes a man interesting in a girl’s eyes. 
And so, I suppose, she looked at you, and 
thought about you, and compared you with us, 
the rough folks she’s used to, and saw a differ- 
ence, and — and that did it. And now there’s 
nought to be done but to speed you on your 
way, and for her to face her trouble — alone!” 

“ Come,” said Masson, “ that’s not the way I 
should take it if I were a man like you, fond of 
a girl who I thought had a passing fancy for 
some one else.” 

But Merrick shook his head. 

“ Passing fancies are for those that see fresh 
faces every day,” said he. “ We in the hills 
don’t have such things. We keep the memory 
of the one, and we hug it in our breast, and live 
upon it, and feed upon it, and make it a thorn 
to tear us with, if it can’t be a joy to strengthen 
and comfort us.” 


The House in the Hills 145 

“ I mean,” said Masson, “That a fancy for a 
stranger who has only passed a few days in the 
neighborhood cannot weigh very heavily against 
the love and the patience of an old and well-tried 
lover. On the contrary, it shows him up to the 
best advantage, in contrast with the man who 
rides away.” 

Coch Tal shook his head despondently. 

“ If she'd liked me before she might come back 
to me,” said he hoarsely, “ but she never has. 
I've always known that. And as I know the 
girl's heart, just as I know my own, for all I'm 
only a rough, ignorant man, I know, too, that 
she won't get over this any more than I could 
get over the loss of her, if I had to go away from 
seeing her. And I know that I shall have to 
stay on after all I've gone through and see her 
break her heart and never be able to so much as 
to take her head on my shoulder and tell her I'm 
sorry ! 

Masson was listening very attentively with 
his hands loosely clasped and his head bent. 

“ If I thought,” said he gravely, “ that there 
was any truth in what you — fancy, Merrick, I — - 
I would save her from any such fate as you 
fear.” 

“What! You'd marry her?” 

Coch Tal was alert, alive, in a moment. 

“Yes,” said the doctor after a slight pause. 
“ If that were the only way to save the girl 
from misery I would do so!” 

The peasant came forward, and drawing a 


146 The House in the Hills 

packing case along with him as a seat, sat close 
to the doctor, looking him straight in the eyes. 

“ Doctor,” said he in a deep whisper that 
seemed to bring the words up from his heart, 
“ it is the only way. You’ve not got the means 
to judge what I have, you don’t know all I 
know, you can never know it. But you may 
take my word for it, if you marry the girl and 
take her away from here, from the whole lot of 
us, and if you’ll be kind to her and treat her as 
you ought, you’ll be doing the only thing that 
can make her happy and repaying her goodness 
to you like the gentleman you are!” 

But Masson felt less certain of this. 

“Are you so sure,” said he, “that marriage 
with a man who has nothing warmer than admi- 
ration and gratitude to give her is the highroad 
to happiness for a woman?” 

Coch Tabs features expanded in a strange, 
dreamy smile. 

“I am sure,” said he. “You see, sir, I know 
Gwyn, and I know her feelings, because they 
are the same as my own. If she could trust 
herself to me with or without love, just out of 
gratitude like, I shouldn’t ask no more. And 
I’d be as happy as a bird on the tree. And I’d 
make her happy, too, that I well know! ” 

“ And you don’t think it foolish of you to 
throw away your only chance of her coming 
round to you? ” 

Coch Tabs rugged features glowed with a look 
which was almost sublime, as he answered: 

“ No, sir. For if I know her to be happy, 


The House in the Hills 147 

why, it’ll be a kind of happiness for myself, too. 
That’s how you feel, sir, when you care for a 
girl as I care for Gwyn Tregaron.” 

Masson bowed his head. There was a noble 
simplicity in the man which made praise of his 
conduct, of his feelings, an impertinence. 

In silence he lay down to rest and listened to 
the deep sigh which Coch Tal uttered from time 
to time from his resting place in the corner. 

Tired as they both were the sleep of both men 
was fitful and broken throughout the night. 


CHAPTER XX. 


When Masson awoke next morning, he found 
himself alone in the loft, Coch Tal having long 
since descended to his day’s work. 

The sunlight was already strong, and Masson 
saw, with a mixed feeling of relief and dread, 
that there were signs of thaw on the sparkling 
surface of the snow. From the windows of the 
loft he could see across the narrow valley to the 
hills on the other side of the lake-born stream 
below, and it was evident that the patches of 
bare rock were more extended, and that whole 
slabs of snow had slipped from the heights and 
lodged in the first cranny they reached. 

If the thaw continued, the way back to Tre- 
coed, and thence to civilization, would soon be 
open. But the thought of the changed course of 
life which this might inaugurate was not one of 
unmixed joy to the doctor. 

For with his admiration and liking for Gwyn 
Tregaron there mingled no feeling strong 
enough to be called love. It was gratitude 
alone which prompted him to the resolution 
he had come to of asking her to be his wife. 
She had undoubtedly saved his life, and, 
although he felt misgivings as to the strength of 
this passion which, according to Coch Tal, he 
had inspired in the girl’s breast, there could be 

148 


The House in the Hills 149 

no doubt whatever that, with the knowledge she 
had of her present surroundings, she would be 
happier if taken into another and less equivocal 
sphere. 

So, having made up his mind, be sought and 
found an opportunity of speaking to the girl. 
When they met at breakfast he saw, now that 
Coch Tal had opened his eyes, certain signs in 
Gwyn which went far to confirm what the 
peasant had said. There was a restlessness, a 
nervousness in the girl's manner, a shy, timid 
look in her eyes when they met his, which made 
it impossible to doubt that there was more than 
mere friendliness toward him in her heart. 

So when breakfast was over, and he had left 
the house with the other men to start the day's 
work, which was now that of cutting a path 
down the hillside into the valley below, he made 
the excuse of taking off his overcoat to return 
to the farmhouse, through one of the windows 
of which he saw Gwyn moving about at her 
household work. 

He came upon her suddenly, and she started 
and blushed. 

“ You mustn't work too hard, just at first," 
said he, kindly. “ Remember, you have not got 
your strength back yet, and you don't want to 
be ill again." 

“ No," said she, “ I — I don't want to be ill 
again." 

She looked as if she wanted to say something 
more, but finally she turned away in silence. 
He followed her across the room. 


150 The House in the Hills 

“ Gwyn,” said he very gently, “ will you be 
sorry when your doctor goes? Will you miss 
your sweetheart?” 

If he had been in any doubt of the state of her 
feelings toward him, he was at once put in pos- 
session of the whole truth. This question, put 
to her suddenly,* brought up to the surface, out 
of the depths of her heart, the hidden reserves 
of passionate affection which she had believed 
safe in their hiding place. She flashed upon 
him one look of startled emotion, and then, 
turning abruptly away, hung her head without 
reply. 

He was deeply touched, and fully confirmed in 
his intention of offering her such happiness as 
it was in his power to give. 

“ Gwyn,” said he, “ will you be my wife?” 

The girl looked up at once, trembling from 
head to foot. 

“ What ! ” she whispered, breathlessly. And 
there shone for a moment in her black eyes a 
radiant look of happiness such as no man could 
have witnessed unmoved. “What! Do you 
mean it? You!” 

“ Indeed I do, Gwyn., I mean it most stead- 
fastly; and I will do everything in my power to 
make you happy ! ” 

Still she stood as if under some spell, quite 
still and breathing quickly. A sort of glory 
seemed to frame her face and make it at that 
moment more exquisitely beautiful than that of 
any woman he had ever seen. After a pause of 
some seconds Masson put out his right hand and 


The House in the Hills 1 5 1 

gently raised hers to his lips. Kind, tender as 
the action was, perhaps the quick intelligence 
of the love-stricken girl detected in the touch 
something which told her of the difference 
between his feelings toward her and hers toward 
him. However that may be, after the lapse of 
another moment she gave a long sigh and then 
drew away her hand sharply, with a laugh 
which grated a little on his ear. It was not a 
hard or a harsh laugh, but it was the merriment 
of the peasant girl, not of the woman of surface 
refinement. 

“ Doctor,” said she sharply, “ you are very 
good, very good, and I thank you. But no. We 
won’t spoil it. You are my sweetheart,” and 
again her voice quivered on the word, “ while 
you stay here. But when you go, and that will 
be soon now, very soon, you and I will be both 
as free as air.” 

“ But if I don’t want to be free, Gwyn? ” per- 
sisted Masson, with all lover-like ardor. 

The girl flashed upon him a proud, searching 
look. 

“ But you do! ” cried she, quickly. 

There was a moment’s silence. Then it was 
she who spoke again: 

“ Fm not ungrateful, doctor. I don’t deny 
that if I was in your rank of life that — that I’d 
give you a different answer.” 

“ But surely that is my business,” interrupted 
Masson, quickly, “ If I, understanding all the 
circumstances just as well as you do ” 

“ But I doubt if you do,” said she quickly. “ I 


152 The House in the Hills 

doubt if a man, even a clever man like you, can 
understand and see it all as well as even a sim- 
ple sort of a woman. Anyhow, I’ve made up 
my mind; and I beg you not to say any more 
about it, because I don’t deny it’s a temptation 
for me.” She tried to laugh a little. “ But as 
it’s a temptation I don’t mean to yield to, and 
as I know what’s best for me as well as you, 
why, talking would only make it worse for me 
to bear.” 

“ But, Gwyn, I don’t understand you quite.” 
She shook her head gently and smiled. He went 
on: “ You are not happy here, I know! ” 

She raised her hand quickly to stop him, evi- 
dently fearing what he might be going to say. 

“ I am not very happy,” said she. “ I don’t 
deny that. But my going away wouldn’t make 
me any happier. I should always be worrying 
about those I had left ” 

“ And you don’t think you would be happy 
enough, as my wife, to forget your worries?” 

After a short pause she answered in a low 
voice : 

“ No. Because I feel the differences between 
you and me and between my friends and my 
ways and yours more than you can do just now. 
You don’t see me with open eyes just yet, sir, 
because of all the circumstances of your seeing 
me first. You can’t see that I’m only just a 
farmer’s daughter, with the ways of my own 
class, which are not the ways of yours. I don’t 
know whether I could ever do right in a new 
life, and I know you'd have to go through a deal 


The House in the Hills 153 

on my account at first. Oh, I know it; I know 
it! And so, if you please, sir, we'll say no more 
about it, but stick to our bargain. And you're 
my sweetheart," she flushed as she uttered the 
word, “ while you're here, but you're free and 
I'm free, as soon as you reach the bottom of the 
hill." 

And with these words, with a pretty glow in 
her proud face, she left him abruptly, going out 
through the washhouse before he could stop her. 

Masson remained for a few minutes in deep 
thought, admiring the girl for her feelings, her 
manner, for her strange good sense, and not 
quite sure whether he felt most relief or dis- 
appointment at her decision. 

Then he was free! And she was free! He 
stretched his arms and prepared to go out to his 
work, when he was startled by a slight noise in 
the outhouse, which betrayed that there had 
been a listener to their conversation. 

He was on the alert in a moment, for he knew 
that there was a new danger to himself in the 
possibility of their compact becoming known. 

Who was the eavesdropper? 


CHAPTER XXI. 


Masson crossed the kitchen floor very softly 
and opened the outhouse door. But there was 
no one there. The place was so large, so dark; 
there were so many hiding places among the 
lumber, so many pitfalls besides the old well, 
that he dared not make a very exhaustive sur- 
vey. He went back again into the kitchen, 
however, with the definite impression that some 
one had been in there listening to his conversa- 
tion with Gwyn, and that the eavesdropper, who- 
ever it was, had found a way of egress. 

The belief was a disturbing one. Masson 
knew that in the belief of the household that 
he was engaged to Gwyn, that he was going to 
marry her and take her away with him, lay his 
safety. And he was therefore not surprised 
when the girl made a pretext for detaining him 
after dinner to whisper in his ear that he must 
try to get away without delay. 

He was startled by her earnestness. 

“ Some one overheard us this morning? ” said 
he, abruptly. 

She bowed her head in silence. And he said 
nothing more for a few seconds. The feeling he 
had for her made this sudden prospect of part- 
ing with her forever a distressing and disturbing 
one. 


i54 


The House in the Hills 


J 55 


“ And so I am to go? ” 

“ Yes. And you must go at once. There 
must be no more delay. I don’t say the journey 
will be without danger, but it is worth the risk — 
any risk. There will be light for nearly three 
hours, and by that time you will have got out 
of the hills, if you have any luck. The road to 
the bottom of the hill is clear now, isn’t it? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Well, you must start, then, and get away as 
quickly as you can. The others are on the hill 
yonder, making a way up to the rest of the 
sheep. Go, now, at once, before they miss you.” 

As she spoke she thrust out her hand, and he 
took it in his. Before he could utter a word in 
his turn, however, the door was opened briskly, 
and the farmer’s cheerful voice cried: 

“ Hi, doctor, we’ve been looking for you. 
Come and lend us a hand. We must push on up 
hill before dusk comes.” 

“ I’d been asking the doctor to go down the 
hill, father, into the valley, to see whether there’s 
a way up to Thomas’s yet,” said she. “We’re 
running rather short of provisions, and I know 
Mrs. Thomas can help us. Make haste, doctor, 
and don’t be long,” she went on, turning to him 
with a warning frown which her father did not 
see. “ Get down the hill, and look along the 
valley to the left. If you see men at work a little 
distance off, cutting their way toward you, shout 
to them and tell them I would be glad to know 
whether they can let me have a side of bacon.” 

She hurried the doctor out, helping him on 


156 The House in the Hills 

with his overcoat and muffler, and giving him 
when she could a warning glance to urge him 
quickly on his way. Then she opened the front 
door, which had now been freed from snow, and 
let him out, with a smile and a nod. Her father 
was standing behind her, just inside the door- 
way. Masson found it hard to look back at her 
with the indifference which it was necessary to 
assume, as if starting on an errand which would 
take him ten minutes. 

Farmer Tregaron’s eyes were fixed upon him 
all the time with a look which Masson thought 
suspicious, curious. Under this fire nothing in 
the nature of a tender parting from Gwyn was 
possible. He would have offered his hand for 
one last clasp, but her own arms were held rig- 
idly behind her back; and although there was a 
strange look of yearning and sadness in her 
black eyes, her lips uttered no word. 

“ Goodby, then/’ muttered Masson in a muf- 
fled voice. 

“ Goodby, doctor, for the present,” returned 
she, loudly. 

And as if fearful lest he should by some word 
or action or look betray the understanding there 
was between them, she shut the door. 

Masson sped on his way down the hill with a 
tumult of strange feelings raging in his heart. 
He could not believe that he had seen Gwyn’s 
face for the last time; that the deliverance from 
prison, for which he had been longing, had come 
at last, and brought nothing but soreness and 
regret with it. 


The House in the Hills 157 

As he crossed the stone-encumbered plain in 
front of the farmhouse, and began the descent 
of the hill by the narrow cutting through the 
deep snowdrifts which he had helped to make, 
he was torn with regrets and longings, with 
remorse and distress, in which his admiration 
and reverence for Gwyn struggled with his self- 
reproach on his brother’s account. 

Had he not wasted his time up there, and the 
opportunity which he should never have again, 
of finding out what had become of poor Gran- 
ville? Should he not have made still greater 
efforts than he had done to discover the truth of 
his brother’s disappearance? 

And again, ought he not to have insisted more 
strongly than he had done upon his wish to 
make Gwyn his wife? What would become of 
the girl, the noble girl who had so unselfishly 
watched over him, and sacrificed her own desires 
of happiness to her belief that she was acting 
for the best for him in refusing his offer? He 
knew that she was miserable in her life, that 
there were terrible secrets of the strange house- 
hold to which she belonged which must lie with 
tenfold weight upon her own innocent soul. 

These considerations caused his heart to bleed 
and his steps to lag, until, by the time he 
reached the bottom of the hill and had to face 
the plunge into the snow of the valley, he had 
almost made up his mind to turn back again 
and to approach her with a more resolute front 
and with a more impassioned prayer that she 
would become his wife. 


158 The House in the Hills 

The only consideration which formed a check 
upon this inclination was the vague belief he 
had that her own brother and grandmother had 
been in some way connected with his brother's 
death. But then, again, appearances seemed to 
be so much stronger against Coch Tal, the 
guide, than against the old woman and her 
grandson that this suspicion could scarcely be 
considered strong enough to influence his action. 
And this was especially the case, in view of the 
fact that Gwyn herself had made no suggestion, 
either by word or manner, of there being such 
an obstacle as this between them. 

So, when he reached the bottom of the hill, 
Masson turned to retrace his footsteps, after 
having glanced down the valley and up again, 
and seen no sign of another human being. The 
way to Trecoed did indeed seem to be open to 
him, for he could see the path on the opposite 
hill, which the sliding masses of snow had left 
free. Even with this prospect of escape in sight, 
the thought of Gwyn made him turn back. 

And as he did so his heart gave an odd leap 
within him, for, standing a few feet from him, 
and evidently on his track, was David Tregaron, 
the farmer. 

The men looked at each other for a moment in 
silence. Tregaron had been taken by surprise, 
for there was on his face a scowl which it had 
not worn on their last meeting, and which he 
instantly tried to exchange for a smile. Masson, 
on his side, was considerably disturbed to find 


The House in the Hills 159 

that he had been followed. The former spoke 
first. 

“ I thought,” he began, “ that you mightn’t be 
able to find your way up again so easy as you 
had thought to, sir. It's still slippery up here 
and not altogether safe.” 

Masson heard, or fancied he heard, in these 
words something more than a warning — a kind 
of threat. 

“ Thank you,” said he coldly. “ I can find my 
way about better than you think.” 

Even if he had wished to go forward on his 
way to Trecoed he saw that to carry out such a 
plan, in the face of what would be determined 
opposition, was impossible. Tregaron was 
armed with a huge axe for one thing; and in his 
position above the other to aim a fatal blow at 
the doctor below would have been easy enough. 
And, in the second place, if Masson had 
attempted to escape and to trust to his heels, he 
would have had no chance against the man who 
knew every chink and cranny of the hills and 
of the valley between. 

He at once, therefore, began to reascend the 
hill, while the farmer waited for him, and then 
dropped a few steps behind. 

“ We are getting on nicely, sir,” went on Tre- 
garon in as buoyant a tone as usual, “ with the 
snow clearing. If you’ll come up with me I can 
show you just what we’ve got to do. The last 
of the sheep will be reached by to-morrow, if 
things go on as well as this.” 

He took Masson across the little table-land in 


160 The House in the Hills 


a different direction from that by which he had 
come. Instead of going near the farmhouse, 
they went round by the south side of the old 
church walls and up the smooth slope where 
Masson had already been with Coch Tal. 

Masson, who for the first time had begun to 
feel some mistrust of the farmer’s motives 
toward him, took care to keep by his side, and 
not to allow Tregaron to drop behind him. He 
remembered the cleft in the hillside toward 
which they were bending their steps, and he 
resolved to be on his guard against accidents at 
that perilous point. As, by good fortune, he 
knew exactly when to look out for it, he man- 
aged to drop behind in his turn as the farmer 
and he reached the opening; and just as he took 
the backward step he was shocked to see on 
Tregaron’s face a look which betrayed a hostile 
feeling in every line of the eagle face. 

At that moment Masson felt a sick horror at 
his position. How was he, unused to the moun- 
tain life, to the steep paths and unexpected 
precipices and chasms, to hope to escape from 
the hardy hill-born farmer, whom he now knew 
to be his enemy? 

Should he stop to reason with the man? How 
could he open the subject? David Tregaron 
was to-day as stolid and taciturn as he had 
before shown himself to be talkative and lively. 
He hung back, he looked away when Masson 
turned his eyes toward him; he betrayed in 
every feature, in every sidelong look, such an 
implacable dislike, such a threatening lowering 


The House in the Hills 1 6 1 

animosity, that the doctor did not know by what 
means to attack him on the subject of Gwyn, or 
of his own departure. 

“A nasty place this?” said Masson at last, 
with a glance down toward the chasm they had 
reached. 

The farmer, who was a step in advance, 
laughed shortly. 

“ You've been here before then?” 

“ Yes.” 

Tregaron wheeled round briskly. 

“And have you been up the rock to Pen 
Uchaf?” asked he abruptly, “that looks straight 
down into Llyn Foel?” 

“ No. This is as far as Fve been.” 

“ Come along, then. I'll show you a sight you 
won't forget.” 

If Masson could have declined the invitation 
he would have done so. But the tone in which 
it was given made it rather a command than a 
request; so he went on, keeping close to the 
farmer's side or a step or two behind, and evad- 
ing all attempts, real or fancied, on the farmer's 
part to make him go first. 

They branched off sharply to the right, walk- 
ing alongside the chasm until they reached a 
point where it could be crossed without diffi- 
culty in the stride. After this the ascent became 
much steeper, although, owing to the nature of 
the ground and its comparatively sheltered posi- 
tion, they found it less encumbered by snow 
than the other parts of the mountain. 

As they got higher the way became more diffi- 


1 62 The House in the Hills 


cult. Here the patches of bare rocks were fre- 
quent, and these dark gray slabs were slippery 
and steep, so that the short winter afternoon had 
begun to darken toward evening by the time 
they reached the top. 

There a grand and awful sight broke suddenly 
upon the view. 

The point of hill on which Masson and the 
farmer stood seemed to hang right over the 
black watery of the mountain pool; and Masson 
turned giddy and stepped back hastily when he 
looked down and saw the still, dark, waveless 
lake beneath him. A horrible notion seized him 
at that moment that it was from this point that 
his brother had been thrown, and that the silent 
tarn was Granville's grave. 

He shuddered, and looking up at the farmer 
saw that the man's thin, bloodless lips were 
stretched into a savage grin of malice. 

“It is horrible. Let us go back!" said 
Masson. 

“ Not yet," said the farmer, shortly. 

And he was advancing upon the doctor with 
a menacing look, when a cry, in a woman’s 
voice, reached their ears: 

“ Father! Father!" 


CHAPTER XXII. 


“ Gwyn! It's Gwyn’s voice! ” 

As the farmer uttered these words, a change 
came over his face. The savage expression dis- 
appeared, and his features became ijl an instant 
convulsed with tender anxiety. 

Before he had fairly ended these few words, 
he had turned, and was retracing his steps down 
the hill at a break-neck pace, with Masson at his 
heels. 

The cry was repeated, and Tregaron and 
Masson both answered by shouts, to which she 
answered by a sort of loud sob of relief. In a 
few minutes they came upon the girl, who had 
begun to ascend the side of Pen Uchaf in their 
track, but who had sunk down, exhausted and 
giddy, at the foot of a great slab of bare gray 
rock. 

“ Gwyn! My girl! My little girl! Out here! 
Oh, doctor, she’ll catch her death!” 

And the angry and malignant man became in 
an instant the humble suppliant, and he looked 
pathetically up into Masson’s face, with his eyes 
streaming with tears. 

“ Help me to carry her back,” said the doctor 
briefly. 

But Gwyn struggled to her feet. She wore no 
hat, only a shawl about her head and shoulders; 

163 


164 The House in the Hills 

and both men were full of alarm for the conse- 
quences of her rash act. Masson, especially, 
was touched to the quick, for he well knew that 
this expedition of the girl's had been undertaken 
on his account. 

They half led, half carried her back to the 
farmhouse, which was soon reached. The 
grandmother, who stood watching their 
approach from the doorway, was enjoined to 
change the girl's clothes at once and to put her 
to bed. But, after the lapse of a few minutes, 
Gwyn, regardless of their injunctions, came 
downstairs again, clinging to the banisters for 
support, but full of energy, of solicitude for 
Masson. 

The farmer had disappeared without another 
word. 

“ Go back, go upstairs to bed," said the doc- 
tor, gently, as he ran forward to her assistance. 

But Gwyn shook her head obstinately. 

“ I will go upstairs," whispered she hoarsely, 
“when you are safely away. Not before!" 

“ No, no, I shall not go! I cannot go until I 
see you safely through this. You will be ill 
again after this imprudence!" 

“ I shall not. You don't understand us moun- 
tain folks. We may be conquered once, but not 
twice. Listen. I know my father followed you. 

I knew you would have to come back. But this 
time you must not be baffled." 

Masson tried to protest, but she imperiously 
silenced him. 

“ Now he thinks he has you safe, because it is 


The House in the Hills 165 

too late to try again to reach Trecoed to-night. 
So it is; but you must get out of this house. 
You must go down the hill and turn to the left 
and up the valley, keeping on this side of the 
stream until you get to Thomas's. Go up there 
and ask them to give you shelter for the night; 
and start for Trecoed as soon as it is light. 
Mind, don't be stopped. If some one meets you 
and tells you I am ill, dying, don't believe it, 
and don't stop. It will be a trick to turn you 
out of your way. God forgive me for having to 
warn you against my own flesh and blood. But 
I must save you ; I must, I will ! " 

She looked up into his eyes with a luminous 
light in her own which intoxicated him. 

“ Gwyn," he whispered, “ don't send me away 
from you. Let me stay until I can marry you 
and take you away. Let me, my darling, let me 
save you ! " 

But she drew herself energetically away. 

“ That has all been decided — settled," said 
she, peremptorily. “ Now, there is only one 
more thing to be said. You must swear that 
when you leave here you will forget everything 
that has passed, everything that has happened. 
And that you will never come here again your- 
self, or set any one else to come here with — 
with inquiries, with investigations." 

Masson drew back a step. She followed him 
up, a threatening light suddenly blazing in her 
eyes. 

“ Swear!" she repeated. “ Swear!" 


1 66 The House in the Hills 


“ But ” stammered Masson. “ My 

brother! ” 

“ What good can you do him now? ” 

A groan broke from Masson’s lips. 

“ You know he is dead, that he must be dead. 
You knew that when you came here. You 
know that he lost his way among the 

mountains.” 

“ I, do not know that! ” interrupted he. 

Gwyn stamped her foot. 

“ You know that he must have died, as many 
other rash travellers have died, through his own 
carelessness, his refusal to take a warning. 

What doubt can you have about that? And 

what good can you do by supposing anything 
else?” Suddenly she changed her tone, and 
from stern and eager, became tearful and 

entreating: “ Oh,” she cried, as she clasped her 
hands, and looked at him with weeping eyes. 
“ How can you hesitate? How can you be stub- 
born and mad? Must we have another crime 
laid at our door? Must you be sacrificed, too? ” 

“ Who will hurt me? ” said he in a low voice. 

Her answer, full of fire and dignity, took him 
by surprise: 

“ I will ! ” cried she. “ I will give you up to 
any fate that may overtake a lonely man among 
the mountains, unless you swear that you will 
never interfere with us, never cause us to be 
interfered with, on your word of honor! ” 

Masson could be obstinate also. 

“ I will not swear,” said he. “ And I will take 
my chance.” 


The House in the Hills 167 

Without another word she left him, opened 
the door, and then, returning quickly, seized 
him by the coat sleeve, and thrust him out into 
the gathering darkness. 

“ Then/' said she, “ take your chance! I have 
told you what to do! ” 

He would have temporized, have pleaded, 
reasoned with her. But she gave him no oppor- 
tunity. Even as he turned, with words of kind- 
ness, of gratitude upon his lips, she pushed the 
door back upon him so violently as to thrust 
him stumbling into the snow outside, and shut 
it in. his face. 

“ Gwyn ! Let me speak to you ! ” cried he 
eagerly. “ Let me speak! ” 

But the only answer he got was the grating of 
the bolts of the door. 

The dusk was deepening in the valley and 
creeping up the sides of the mountains as he 
staggered away, heartsore, weary of limb, and 
alone. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


The oppression of the silence and of the 
gathering darkness was awful ; and Reginald 
Masson felt that he wanted to cry aloud, to do 
anything to break the mournful spell of dead, 
solemn stillness which hung over mountains and 
valley alike. 

He knew that it was useless to go back to the 
farmhouse, from the door of which he had just 
been ejected so unceremoniously. And, honor- 
ing and trusting Gwyn Tregaron as he did, he 
could not but feel that this action on her part, 
strange though it was, had been calculated, that 
she felt it to be the best course to pursue to 
ensure his safety. 

On the other hand, it was true that her atti- 
tude, when he refused to promise not to investi- 
gate further into his brother's fate, had been one 
of defiance, that she had turned him out into the 
dangers of night upon the mountains without a 
word of kindness or of farewell. 

But even this action on her part failed to con- 
vince him that she was as hard as her words. 
As he made his way with difficulty down the 
hillside in the darkness he decided that he would 
follow the advice she had given him at the begin- 
ning of their conversation and find the other 
farmhouse of which she had spoken. 

1 68 


The House in the Hills 169 

If he could get shelter for the night he would 
start on his way back to Trecoed early on the 
following morning. 

He turned to the left, therefore, when he 
reached the bottom of the hill and saw a light 
on the high ground above him on the left. 

Here, however, the snow had not been cleared 
at all, and it was with the greatest difficulty 
that he reached the foot of the hill on the side 
of which the second farmhouse was. 

After a long and toilsome struggle, in the 
course of which he was plunged knee-deep into 
drifts at every other step, he got to the foot of 
the hill, and from this spot found the ascent easy 
enough, as a path down the slope had been cut 
by the inhabitants of the farmhouse. 

The dwelling itself, a smaller and more unpre- 
tentious place than Monachlog, with none of the 
claims to admiration or interest possessed by 
David Tregaron's home, was much easier of 
access. It was a small stone building, with a 
slate roof, and the door was mean and narrow 
and painted dark green. 

He knocked, and a little active woman, with 
sharp black eyes opened it and looked at him 
in surprise. 

“ Can you give me shelter for the night?” 
asked Masson, conscious of difficulties in his 
story. “ I lost my way on the first day of the 
snow and have been staying at Monachlog farm 
ever since. Starting to-night on my way back 
to Trecoed, I have lost my way again, and so 


170 The House in the Hills 

have no choice but to beg a lodging for the 
night” 

Before he had finished his speech the good 
woman had opened the door wide to him and 
was nodding a cheerful assent. 

“ Dear, dear!” cried she in the sharp Welsh 
accent with which he was now growing so 
familiar. “ It’s a bad business to lose one’s way 
among the hills at this time of year! And you 
may be thankful, sir, as you ever found your 
way to shelter alive at all! And to be sure you’re 
welcome to such poor fare as we’ve got, and to 
such a bed as we can give you! I don’t say it’ll 
be what you’re used to, but it’ll be better than a 
snow drift, anyway! And we can give you a 
hearty welcome ! ” 

Masson, while he thanked her, was struck by 
the difference between the woman’s ready, cor- 
dial hospitality, and the sullen reluctance to give 
him a shelter for the night which David Tre- 
garon had shown on his arrival at Monachlog. 
He was not displeased to find Mrs. Thomas such 
a chatterbox, as he was anxious to hear the local 
opinion concerning the strange household at the 
old monastery. 

The kitchen was smaller than that at Mona- 
chlog, but was much more comfortably fur- 
nished. The seats and settles were all cushioned, 
and a large strip of warm-looking carpet covered 
the greater part of the floor. Mrs. Thomas 
apologized for not taking him into the “ parlor,” 
which, she said, was cold, as it was only used 
on Sundays. But she brought forth from that 


The House in the Hills 171 


state apartment a magnificent pair of three- 
branched candlesticks, of old Sheffield plate, and 
put them upon the kitchen table in honor of the 
guest. 

The family was assembling for supper, and 
each member, on entering, greeted the new- 
comer, the men with a touch of the forelock, the 
women with a courtesy. There was the farmer 
himself, the husband of the woman who had 
made Masson welcome, and there were three 
short, broad, sturdy sons and two shorter and 
equally sturdy daughters. 

To Masson’s delight, the conversation turned, 
as soon as they were all seated at the table, on 
the family at Monachlog. 

“ And how’s the lass?” asked Mr. Thomas, as 
he helped his family from a huge dish of ham 
and eggs. “ I did hear as Tregaron was troubled 
about her; she’d caught cold out in the rain one 
day looking after the sheep for her father.” 

“ She’s been very ill,” answered Masson. “ I 
was lucky in being able to be of some little 
service to them; for I’m a doctor, and Mr. 
Tregaron had been unable to get one to come 
and see his daughter.” 

Everybody looked interested. 

“ And I hope they treated you well, sir, up 
there?” said Thomas in an inquiring tone. 

“ I had nothing to complain of,” answered 
Masson. “ But why do you ask? I thought 
you had all a great name for hospitality up here 
among the hills? ” 


172 The House in the Hills 

“Well, sir, I hope we have. But, you know, 
sir, different folks has different ways.” 

“ He means, sir,” broke in his more talkative 
and less cautious wife, “ that the Tregarons are 
not like other folks; leastways they haven't been 
since Mrs. Tregaron died, five years back and 
more. And my good man thought you'd maybe 
noticed it yourself, sir.” 

“And how do you account for that?” asked 
Masson. 

“ Well, sir, David Tregaron was always an 
odd sort of a man, but his wife was a good one, 
and helped things along. And since she went 
he's took life in a loose sort of a way, so we've 
wondered, time and again, how they've man- 
aged to get along at all. You want to put your 
best foot foremost to scrape a living up here, 
you know, sir, and we've often wondered how 
they make shift to get butter for their bread, 
letting things go as Tregaron does.” 

“ It's his man Merrick, that they call Coch 
Tal, that keeps him from going to pieces alto- 
gether," said Thomas. “ He's a capable sort, he 
is; and he wouldn't be wasting his time there if 
it wasn’t for the lass ! ” 

Mrs. Thomas here looked at her husband and 
sighed, and the lads and lasses glanced at each 
other and grinned. 

“ It's a deal of a pity she don't take a liking 
to him!” said Mrs. Thomas. 

Then there was a silence. 

“The old woman is a strange creature! ” said 


The House in the Hills 173 

Masson. “I never heard her open her lips the 
whole time I was there.” 

There was a look of surprise on the face of 
every one at the table at these words. 

“ She used to be talkative enough! ” said Mrs. 
Thomas. “ The difficulty was to get her to 
stop! ” 

Thomas shook his head. 

“ It’s just one more sign of something wrong 
up there, if old Mrs. Tregaron’s lost the gift of 
the gab,” said he. 

Nobody spoke for a few seconds. Then the 
farmer turned the conversation. 

“ And might one ask, sir, what brought you 
to these wild parts just as the bad weather was 
coming on?” said he. 

“ I came to try to find some trace of my 
brother,” replied Masson, “ who was lost among 
these hills in the beginning of October.” 

“ Dear, dear! And have you been success- 
ful, sir? ” 

“ Yes. And no. I have found that this Mer- 
rick, or Coch Tal, accompanied him into this 
valley, and that he went up to Monachlog to 
see the ruins. They tell me he went on by him- 
self; but I can find no further trace.” 

The farmer and his wife exchanged a stealthy 
look. And with one accord they started fresh 
subjects of conversation, and refused to make 
any suggestion, or any hint, which could either 
throw Masson off or on the scent he was 
pursuing. 

When the younger members of the family had 


174 The House in the Hills 

gone to bed, Masson tried again to get from the 
farmer or his wife some opinion, some sugges- 
tion on the matter of his brother’s fate. But 
nothing he could say, no persuasion or entreaty, 
or even affected doubt, could draw them from 
their determined reticence. 

He slept soundly in a bed in the room with 
the farmer’s sons, and in the early morning, 
when the lads got up, he started on his way to 
Trecoed, accompanied down the slope by the 
eldest lad. 

Just at the foot they found Cocli Tal, wearing 
a gloomy expression of face, and speaking in a 
short, hard manner. 

“ Sir,” said he to Masson, “ I’ve come to tell 
you there’s more snow coming down. And 
you’d better stay up here and not try to get 
back to Trecoed for a day or two.” 

“Snow coming!” cried Masson, in surprise. 
“ I shouldn’t have thought it by the look of the 
sky!” 

Morning was only just breaking, but the sky 
was cloudless, and the air fresh and keen and 
touched with frost. 

Coch Tal remained stolid. 

“ Miss Tregaron told me to come and tell you 
so,” said he with a gathering frown. 

And without another word he turned and 
began to plough his way back to Monachlog 
through the snow. 

“ What would you have thought? ” asked 
Masson, turning to the young man beside him, 


The House in the Hills 175 

“ that tb*~~ was more snow coming down, or 
not? ” 

Young Thomas, without looking at his ques- 
tioner, stared at the retreating figure of Coch 
Tal. 

“ If I’d been advised to stay, sir, by yon,” and 
he nodded in the direction of the red-headed 
peasant, “ Td stay.” 

But Masson was obstinate. He was weary of 
the mysteries and dangers, of the fears, the 
doubts and suspicions which had pressed upon 
him during the whole time of his sojourn among 
the hills. These few days seemed now to have 
been weeks, months; since he could do no good 
to Gwyn, the one person whom he knew to be 
worthy of all sympathy, of all respect, the only 
member of the Monachlog household who was 
beyond suspicion, he felt that he must get out 
of the atmosphere of the place into a more 
wholesome one without further delay. 

So he shook his head in answer to the lad’s 
warning remark. 

“ I must go,” said he. “ It’s early ; I have the 
day before me. The snow has melted a good 
deal. I can reach Trecoed before night, I’m 
pretty sure.” 

The lad looked at him askance. 

“ This is a nasty place, sir, for travellers,” 
said he in a courteous tone of protest. “ It don’t 
seem so very far from here to Trecoed, but 
there’s four travellers, strangers to the place, 
have been lost — altogether lost — hereabouts 
within the last few years ! ” 


ij6 The House in the Hills 

Masson looked at him steadily. 

“ Were none of them ever found?” he asked, 
abruptly. 

“ One was, sir, two years and more ago. His 
body was found between two rocks. And the 
water had washed away most of his clothes, and 
it was as much as they could do to swear it was 
him.” 

“ Was foul play suspected?” 

“ N-n-o, sir, not as I know of. This is a nasty 
place to get lost in.” 

The lad seemed to be infected with the reti- 
cence his parents had shown. He was evidently 
anxious to get away and to avoid further cross- 
examination. Masson smiled grimly to himself. 

“ Well,” said he, “ I shall risk it. Many 
thanks for the advice, though. I know it is 
good advice, though Y m too impatient to take 
it. Goodby .” 

He held out his hand, and the lad took it. 
Masson had an odd fancy, which pursued him 
as he ploughed his way down the valley through 
the snow, that the lad as he bade him goodby 
gave up all hope of ever seeing him again and 
even of his ever reaching Trecoed alive. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


The morning light was growing stronger 
every minute as Masson, after bidding young 
Thomas goodby, started on his walk back to 
Trecoed. 

He saw now, what had escaped his notice in 
the darkness the night before, that there was 
another way down the valley, one which looked 
much easier than the snow-encumbered route 
he had followed. It was a ridge a little way 
up the hill on the right, which seemed to form 
a path much more free from snow than the one 
he was taking. He climbed up to it, therefore, 
and was relieved to find his belief justified. A 
rough path ran along the ridge, sometimes 
among patches of small fir trees, and sometimes 
upon the bare side of the hill, but always open 
and free from snow by comparison with the val- 
ley beneath. The slush caused by the thaw was, 
however, unpleasant and chilling to the feet. He 
could not walk fast enough through the puddles 
and over the slippery places to get his feet thor- 
oughly warm, and the path, with its zigzags, took 
longer to follow than he had expected. 

Presently he became conscious of a feeling 
that he was being followed. 

He turned abruptly, but he had just rounded 
a bare bowlder, and he could see no one. The 

177 


178 The House in the Hills 

fancy was so strong upon him, however, that he 
retraced his steps and looked round the pro- 
truding rock at the path he had traversed. 
There were foot marks, which he had not pre- 
viously noticed, ascending from the path to the 
top of the rock, but still he saw no one. 

There descended upon his spirits with irresist- 
ible force a belief that he had not escaped from 
the mysterious dangers of Monachlog after all. 
Go which way he would, he could not get 
beyond the malign influence which he felt to 
emanate from that uncanny household; he was 
shadowed, even now that he had left the house, 
by an evil influence, impalpable, but unmistaka- 
ble, which seemed to hang like a veil over him, 
shutting him in, closing him in. He began to 
feel a dreadful doubt whether he ever should get 
out of this valley; whether he should not share 
the mysterious, unknown fate which had over- 
taken his unhappy brother. 

With eyes and ears on the alert, with his teeth 
fast set, with a savage desperation at his heart, 
he pressed forward, bent on reaching once more 
the open ground in the valley below, where at 
least no ambush could be laid for him. 

He had to pass through another bit of strag- 
gling wood, where the pine trees grew stiff and 
ragged in a patch upon the hillside, and where 
a would-be assailant might lie hidden in perfect 
safety. But he passed through it without inci- 
dent and came again upon the open hillside, 
where the path took a turn to the right, round- 
ing one small hill, which brought him within 


The House in the Hills 179 

sight of the ruined monastery and of the walls 
of the monks’ old church. 

Here he paused for a moment doubtful, hesi- 
tating. The way to Trecoed, or at least the only 
way he knew, lay to the left, across the stream 
which ran down the valley, and up the great hill 
on the opposite side of the pass. 

The path which he was following, on the other 
hand, now turned to the right; and if he pur- 
sued it he would have to take a winding course, 
with more fatigue and loss of time; for he could 
see that it reappeared on the hill opposite to 
him, the very hill on which the old monastery 
stood. He felt that he did not want to go so 
near the place again; in spite of his tenderness 
for Gwyn, the sight of the ruined gray walls 
filled him with a very definite horror and sense 
of danger. 

He resolved, therefore, to attempt the difficult 
task of leaving the path at this point and scram- 
bling down the rugged hillside, which was at 
this point both rough and precipitous, into the 
valley below. 

He had scarcely taken the first step down- 
ward, however, when he heard a low, sup- 
pressed cry of warning from above, and looking 
up saw the head of Coch Tal looking at him 
from behind a jutting point of rock. 

“Take care,” said the peasant; “take care.” 

He had hardly uttered these words when Mas- 
son, who had already discovered the need of 
great caution, as he found himself slipping down 
the snowy surface with a rapidity he had not 


180 The House in the Hills 


calculated upon, saw that Coch Tal was not look- 
ing down at him, but that he had got his eyes 
fixed intently upon a figure on the side of the 
opposite hill. 

In his desperate situation, for he was slipping 
every moment faster down the hill, Masson had 
no chance of taking a very accurate survey. But 
he had an unpleasant sense of being surrounded, 
hemmed in by enemies, which was considerably 
increased, when his descent was suddenly 
stopped by a jutting piece of rock, by his per- 
ceiving that the figure which had attracted Coch 
Tabs attention was that of old Mrs. Tregaron, 
who in her cap and shawl was crouching on the 
side of the opposite hill on the outskirts of a 
small patch of firs and leafless bushes. 

She was watching him furtively, with her lean 
neck outstretched, and one skinny, dark hand 
pointing to some spot a little way behind her. 

Masson had scarcely had time to recognize 
her, and to wonder what connection her appear- 
ance had with that of Coch Tal, when he heard 
the report of a gun, saw a flash from out of the 
trees behind the old woman and heard a bullet 
whistle past him. 

The next instant the old woman sprang up 
with a cry and another figure rushed out from 
among the trees. 

It was David Tregaron, gun in hand. 

What followed happened so rapidly that it 
was like a confused dream. 

It was not until he thought it all over after- 


The House in the Hills 1 8 1 


ward that Masson understood the exact sequence 
of events. 

Then he knew that the gun was levelled once 
more; that the old woman met her son, that the 
weapon went off, discharging itself harmlessly 
in the air; and that the next moment the farmer 
slipped, and, with a cry, fell, gun in hand, down 
the side of the hill, out of Masson's sight, into 
the cleft below, between the hills. 

And the old woman clasped her hands, and, 
breaking the hideous, awful silence which fol- 
lowed with the accents of her quavering, shrill 
voice, cried, with a thankfulness which made 
Masson shudder: 

“ Thank God! It's over! Thank God, oh, 
thank God! ” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


Masson was in a strange position. His feet 
had touched a jutting piece of rock which held 
him firm. But the point was so small, and the 
side of the hill was so steep that he did not 
dare to move, but remained in this perilous 
plight, unable to go backward or forward, or 
even to lean far enough to the right to see what 
had happened to David Tregaron when he fell 
into the cleft between the two hills. 

Meanwhile the old woman had relapsed into 
silence and stood looking down at some object 
below with the blank, staring gaze which had 
seemed so uncanny to Masson throughout his 
acquaintance with her. 

The voice of Coch Tal, from the path above 
him, now called Masson’s attention back to the 
peasant. 

“ Don't you move, sir, don't you move. 
You're a dead man if you do." 

“ All right," answered the doctor, not very 
steadily. 

He did not quite realize from which quarter 
he was now threatened; whether by Coch Tal 
himself or by the farmer's gun, or by his own 
situation on the side of the hill. The pause 
which succeeded seemed unending. There he 
remained, with his feet close together, against 

182 


/ 


The House in the Hills 183 

the point of rock, his clothing saturated by the 
thawing snow at his back and the now risen 
sun pouring upon him across the mountains on 
the left. 

It was a beautiful sight which lay before him; 
but he was in no mood to appreciate the charms 
of sparkling snow or rushing stream, of dark 
firs and picturesque gray rock. In his ears the 
cry of the old woman was still ringing; he was 
still asking himself what deyelopment of the 
strange adventure was in store for him. 

At the end of what seemed a very long period 
of waiting, during which the old woman had 
disappeared, and the whole valley had seemed 
to be steeped in a solemn, awful stillness, he 
heard the voice of Coch Tal above his head once 
more. 

“ Put the rope round you, sir, and come up 
carefully. You're wanted." 

Masson saw by this time that a strong rope, 
with a noose at the end, was being lowered to 
him from above. He made himself fast to it, 
and, with the help of Coch Tal and Tom, 
regained the path with some difficulty. He 
found Coch Tal looking very grave, and the lad 
Tom in a panic of strange fear, trembling from 
head to foot, and unable to speak. 

No sooner was the doctor on his feet than 
Coch Tal drew him rapidly along the path to a 
point where there was an easy descent into the 
valley below. 

“ I told you, sir, that you were wanted/' said 


184 The House in the Hills 

he in a grave voice, “ but I don’t know as I was 
right. Look!” 

He pointed to a spot below them, where, 
jammed between two sharp rocks, there lay 
something undistinguishable, dark,' motionless, 
at sight of which Masson started and turned 
toward his companions. His startled, question- 
ing look was answered by their faces. 

There was no need for words for him to know 
that what he saw was the body of the farmer, 
and that he was dead. 

It was Masson who hurried forward, and who 
attempted the vain task of withdrawing the 
body from its horrible position. Tregaron had 
fallen into the cleft between the hills at a point 
where two jagged rocks, rising up from the bed 
of a little mountain stream, formed a narrow 
and fatal cradle, into which nobody could fall 
without being horribly mangled and crushed by 
the terrible contact. 

Into this ghastly deathbed David Tregaron 
had fallen, and the first glance which Masson 
gave, when he got, with some difficulty, close to 
the spot, showed him that death must have been 
instantaneous. The broken gun lay in pieces 
within a few feet of the body. 

With much difficulty, since Tom, at the first 
suggestion that he should lend his aid, ran away 
up the path at full speed and disappeared, Mas- 
son and Merrick extricated the bruised body 
from its position, and carried it up the path. 
Although the farmer had been a short, spare 
man, the position in which his body had been 


/ 


The House in the Hills 185 

found, and the steepness of the ascent, made the 
journey a long and tedious one. 

When at last they got on the little table-land 
on which the farmhouse stood, Masson was 
seized with a strange sensation of sick horror 
on finding himself once more brought to the 
place which he had hoped never to see again. 

At the thought of seeing Gwyn again, in these 
shocking circumstances, made him stop, and 
hesitate, and look at Coch Tal with such an 
expression of distress that the peasant broke the 
silence in which they had done their work. 

“ You'd better come in, sir,” said he, with an 
apt appreciation of the doctor’s mood; “ you’d 
better by far hear all about it, now you’ve come 
so far! ” 

At that moment the lad Tom, still in the same 
state of nervous excitement as before, opened 
the farmhouse door and came out. His eyes 
were red, as if he had been crying; and the 
expression of his whole face, instead of being 
sullen and downcast as usual, was wild and dis- 
turbed. He came toward them hurriedly, with 
a sidelong, shambling walk, as if he was anxious 
to reach the two live men without coming near 
the dead man they bore. 

“ Come round the back way,” said he, 
“ through the outhouse! ” 

Masson and Coch Tal, with their burden, fol- 
lowed him to the south side of the farmhouse, 
making their way with difficulty over the bits 
of ruined masonry with which this part of the 
premises was especially encumbered. 


1 86 The House in the Hills 


Toni opened a little rough wooden door, which 
had been inserted in the massive old wall which 
had once been that of the north aisle of the 
church. This admitted them into the outhouse, 
where a rough trestle bed had been already put 
up for the reception of the body. They placed 
the remains of the farmer upon this resting 
place, and then Masson and Coch Tal, still in 
silence, turned toward the kitchen door, which 
Tom held open for them. 

But on the threshold Masson hesitated. 
Standing still within the gloom of the outhouse, 
of which he had already such uncanny recol- 
lections, he felt a dread seizing him of the story 
that he should have to hear; he was oppressed 
by the knowledge that the key to the mystery of 
Monachlog would, within a few minutes, be in 
his keeping. 

Before him, sitting by the kitchen fire, sat 
Gwyn Tregaron, with her head back against her 
high chair, her eyes closed, and an expression 
of intense agony on her pallid face. On the 
opposite side of the hearth stood the old woman, 
leaning upon her stick and pointing with a lean 
finger to the door of the outhouse. 

Tom, who was standing just inside the kitchen 
door, made a gesture to Masson of encourage- 
ment, of invitation to enter; and, as he did so, 
he uttered, in a hoarse whisper, these significant 
words : 

“ Come in, sir; come in. There’s nothing to 
fear here; nothing now!” 


/ 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Startled by these words, Masson said hur- 
riedly: “ Thank you,” and entered the kitchen. 

At the sound of his voice Gwyn sprang up and 
stared at him with wild eyes. She had heard of 
the tragedy which had happened but an hour 
before, and it was evident that it had shaken her 
still delicate frame and struck dismay to her 
loving nature. She started at Masson for a few 
moments ; then for a moment Iier features broke 
into a beautiful smile of welcome; but the next 
moment a look of horror came over her face; 
the slight flush died away, and turning from 
him toward her grandmother with a long, gasp- 
ing sigh, she fell back into her chair and cov- 
ered her face with her hands. 

And for the first time the old woman, who had 
roused so much animosity in Masson's breast, 
showed a sign of tenderness, of humanity. 

“ Don't-ee cry, dearie. It's bad; it's very bad 
to bear. But don’t-ee cry.” 

Masson stood transfixed. For here was 
another mystery presented to his mind. The 
witch-like old woman, who had been reported to 
speak no English, and who had, indeed, never 
until that morning uttered a word in his hear- 
ing, was speaking as intelligently and as intelli- 
gibly as any of them. Her bead-like black eyes, 

187 


1 88 The House in the Hills 

too, whose unblinking stare had been one cause 
of the dislike she had inspired in him, were now 
full of kindliness and feeling. 

He almost felt as if he would rather have gone 
on his way back to Trecoed without solving the 
mysteries which hung about the farm than have 
had to be present at this strange and pitiful 
scene. 

There was nothing for him to do but to cross 
the floor as quietly and unobtrusively as possi- 
ble, and retreating into the background of the 
corner between the fireplace and the front door, 
to wait until they chose to give him the confi- 
dence which he felt sure was impending. 

It was Tom who broke the silence. He put 
his arm, awkwardly but kindly, on his sister's 
shoulder, and said: 

“ Don't take on Gwyn. Tell the gentleman, 
tell the doctor — all about it. You can now!" 

And then he went out of the room, nodding 
to Coch Tal, who reluctantly followed him. The 
old woman transferred her gaze from the grand- 
daughter to Masson, and then said, in a low 
voice: 

“ Maybe she'll find it easier to speak to you 
alone, sir. And to tell you what you'd better 
know. I'll come back presently." 

And then she retired in her turn, and Masson 
and the girl were left alone. 

For a few minutes she remained in the same 
position, with her head bent over her hands; he 
did not even feel sure that she was conscious 
of his presence. But at last she raised her head 


The House in the Hills 189 

and showed him a face which was drawn into 
strange puckers and lines by stress of deep 
feeling. 

“ Perhaps,” said he, gently, “ you would rather 
not speak to me. I am quite content to go 
away without hearing anything more; indeed, I 
can guess for myself much that you may have 
thought it necessary for me to know.” 

But Gwyn bade him remain, making an 
imperious gesture of command rather than 
entreaty that he should be seated. So he took 
the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, 
clasped his hands loosely together, and leaned 
forward with his arms upon his knees, so that 
he could listen without appearing to watch her 
face. 

“You must know; you must hear,” said she, 
in a faltering voice, “ for all our sakes, and for 
your own. You must not go away thinking that 
we are a body of murderers and thieves. We 
are not. You must not come back, or send 
detectives back, to hunt out the mystery of your 
brother's death ! ” 

“Do you think I would?” began Masson 
hotly, but she silenced him by a gesture and 
went on: 

“Yes, you would, if we let you go away with- 
out knowing the truth. You might think your- 
self bound by some tie of kindness, of gratitude, 
to keep silent. But in the long run you would 
say something or do something; you would come 
back or send some one on your behalf, and we 
should at any rate all lie under the disgrace; my 


190 The House in the Hills 

brother, and Granny, and poor Merrick, and 
all! So I am going to end it. You won’t expect 
me to be too hard, and you must try not to be 
hard yourself. Listen! I don’t know how your 
brother died. I can’t tell you that. Nobody 
now living can. The only man who could have 
told you can never be brought to account by any 
human Judge! ” 

Masson bowed his head without any appear- 
ance of astonishment. This was the confession 
he had been prepared for. 

“ Nobody elss is to blame. Nobody else knew 
anything about it till you first came. But the 
moment Merrick saw you on the road, heard 
your voice, he knew that your brother had — 
had died mysteriously, and that you, his rela- 
tion, had come to bring those to blame to 
account! ” 

“ Ah!” 

“ When he ran away from you he thought he 
had escaped. You may judge what his horror 
was when, believing that you would never be 
able to find the farm without a guide, he found 
you here within two hours. That was why he 
would not come in to supper. And when you 
were asleep afterward, in that very chair, he 
came in quietly, with Tom, and loosened the 
muffler round your neck to look into your face, 
and searched your pockets to find out your 
name.” 

"■So it was he! Merrick! I remember!” 
ejaculated Masson. 

“ Then he was frightened, and Granny, and 


The House in the Hills 191 

Tom, and all of us. For we knew you would 
never get away alive, to bring the police back 
here with you ! ” 

“ What? You were so sure of it? ” cried Mas- 
son, with a shudder. 

The girl bowed her head. 

“ I did what I could to warn you, to save you.” 

“ Indeed you did. I shall never cease to be 
grateful.” 

“ But all the time I was torn by two feelings. 
The wish to save you, to spare him this one 
more crime, and the wish to save him, too. 
For, remember, I loved him. We all loved him. 
In spite of all we knew, and all we guessed, we 
loved him, and would have shielded him. For 
he was always good to us, so good that we could 
not believe it when we first suspected him of — 
of ” 

“And when was that? That you first sus- 
pected him?” 

“ It was nearly five years ago, in the winter. 
We were very, very badly off, had scarcely any- 
thing to eat, and a traveller came by and rested 
here and talked of his dealings and of the money 
he had made. He was a cattle dealer, and car- 
ried a long leather purse filled with gold.” 

She paused, overcome by the horror of her 
recollections. 

“And when he went on (the way was pretty 
open that winter and he knew the roads) my 
father went out after him. And when he came 
back he seemed just the same as ever, only he 
said that he had got paid some money that one 


192 The House in the Hills 

of the farmers near had owed him for some 
years. And we were as merry as could be over 
this piece of luck, till — till we heard of a trav- 
eller having been found dead in a stream, some 
weeks after, with part of his clothes washed 
away. Nobody thought of foul play, till Tom 
found out that it was the cattle dealer and that 
there was no money found. And then we all 
feared, secretly, not telling each other what we 
thought — Granny and Tom and Merrick, too, 
and me! ” 

She shuddered and paused again. When she 
went on it was in a more rapid pace, as if she 
was anxious to get the dismal tale ended. 

“ But all the while father seemed just the 
same, and we didn't dare to speak to him. He 
seemed so unconcerned that now and then we 
would laugh at our fears and think we had done 
him a cruel injustice. It wasn't till the second 
and the third accident that we felt sure, sure; 
and meantime I'd had to persuade poor Merrick 
to stay on; father made me. And the feeling 
that he hated to stay, and that he was only stay- 
ing just for me, was bitter and hard and 
dreadful!” 

Masson began to understand. This, then, was 
the secret of her strange coldness toward the 
man who worshipped her. 

“ And then to see you suspect the poor fellow, 
when I knew who it was that was in fault, that 
was dreadful, too! But yet I couldn't put you 
right, for it would have been putting my father 
in danger!” 


The House in the Hills 193 

“ But,” said Masson, “ if you thought such a 
thing, I can't understand how you could go on 
caring for him!” 

“You see,” said Gwyn earnestly, “that all we 
had to go upon was suspicion; for although we 
knew that those three travellers ” 

“ Three!” 

“ Yes, yes. While we knew that they had died 
mysteriously, and we connected his absences 
from home with their deaths, yet there was 
never any difference in his manner to us, and 
nobody else ever suspected that they had met 
with foul play. You know yourself how dan- 
gerous these hills are. Look at my own father's 
death this morning.” 

“ Was it you who sent Coch Tal to warn me 
not to go to Trecoed this morning?” 

“ Yes. I knew my father was on the watch,” 
whispered the girl. “ And Granny knew it, and 
she went down to watch him; she followed him 
when he went out with his gun. And it was she 
who tried to stop him when he fired. And — 
and you know the rest.” 

There was a long silence. 

“ I cannot yet understand it,” said Masson at 
last. “ You have all acted almost as if you were 
in league with your father.” 

“ Don't — don't say that,” pleaded the girl. 
“Poor Tom only obeyed him when he could not 
help himself.” 

“Your grandmother, who could have warned 
me, kept silence.” 

“ How could she have warned you against the 


194 The House in the Hills 

son she loved? She would have done anything 
for him, although she suspected him, too. But 
she held out in her heart against believing him 
guilty longer than any of the others, and when 
he told her not to talk to you, for fear of her let- 
ting out something, I suppose, she obeyed him, 
as she always did. It was not until she saw 
him fire — at you — this morning that she really 
believed. It will break her heart.” 

It was a ghastly story. Masson got up. 

“ And — and my brother!” said he. “ Can 
you give me no clue, no guide as to the direction 
in which I am to search?” 

She shook her head. 

“ No,” whispered she. “ It might be in Llyn 
Foel; or at the bottom of the passage in there, 
that the monks used to draw their provisions 
up by! Or it might be in one of the streams, or 
in a cleft of the rocks. Nobody knows. Nobody 
can tell you. When we are gone — for we shall 
go — you can come and search. For you can- 
not hurt my father now.” 

Beautiful as this dogged filial feeling might, 
in the abstract, be, Masson was irritated by it. 
He was anxious to get away. Gwyn, looking 
up, saw the impatient look on his face. She 
sprang up, and stood before him, trembling and 
agitated. 

“You want to get away! You want to get 
free and forget us! ” said she, in a strange tone, 
with mingled bitterness and tenderness. “ Well, 
you are right! Forget us — all — if you can!” 


The House in the Hills 195 

Something in her tone touched him, and he 
spoke in a softened voice as he answered: 

“ There are things I shall never forget, that I 
never wish to forget. A woman’s unselfish kind- 
ness and care; her good, noble face and her 
heroic devotion. I will forget everything but 
those things as quickly as I can.” 

He held out his hand, and she took it with a 
shy look, which haunted him for months 
afterward. 

“ Goodby,” said she, softly. “ Goodby, and 
heaven take care of you on your way. You can 
go safely now.” 

“And Merrick? And your grandmother, who 
saved my life?” 

“ Don’t wait to see them. They would be 
ashamed. And she, poor soul! could almost 
hate you for causing her to sacrifice the life of 
her son. Ah, you don’t understand how we 
cling to each other, of course! But, take my 
word for it, and let me bid them goodby for 
you.” 

Even as she spoke she hurried across the 
kitchen and opened the front door. He had no 
choice but to go. 

“ Goodby,” said she once more, with a little 
catch in her voice, though the hand she held out 
again was steady. 

“What will become of you?” 

“I — I don’t know. I don’t much care!” 

They were outside the door. Kind, tender 
words rushed to his lips; he drew close to her; 
he bent to look into her eyes. 


196 The House in the Hills 

For a moment she wavered, seemed inclined 
to listen. Then, with a resolute shake of the 
head, pressing her hands tightly together and 
biting her lips, she pushed him away, and 
stamping her foot, and pointing to the path 
down the hill, imperiously signed to him to go. 

As he turned, sorrowfully, regretfully, full of 
bubbling passion and longing tenderness, to 
obey her, she ran off, waving her hand with an 
affectation of lightheartedness, in the direction 
of the ruined church. She was going to hide 
herself among the old stones, to cry, perhaps to 
pray, and to mourn his going. 

For one minute he hesitated whether he 
should give up everything, and go back, and 
strain her to his arms and bind himself hers 
forever when his ardor was checked by a little 
circumstance. 

Just as she reached the north wall she 
stumbled, and a man darted out of the shade 
and supported her in his arms. Masson watched 
the meeting breathlessly. The man was Coch 
Tal; honest, loving, faithful to the end. 

He caught her swaying figure, tenderly, not 
greatly daring. 

But Masson saw, in the girl's attitude as she 
let herself be led back to the house, a little 
change. She was passive; she did not repulse 
her lover, as she had once done. That terrible 
event of the morning had altered the whole 
course of life at Monachlog, had broken the 
spell which had bound them all. 

Masson felt the tears rising to his eyes as he 


The House in the Hills 197 

turned away, and a lump in his throat which 
was brought there by some feeling strong as 
joy, but keen as jealousy. 

She would fall into her old lover’s arms as she 
had fallen into his heart — some day. 

Three months later Masson came back to the 
old farm, which he found empty and deserted. 

He searched every corner and every nook. 
He examined every stream and every cleft. He 
engaged men of experience to drag such parts 
of Llyn Foel as were sufficiently shallow to 
allow of such a proceeding; he went down into 
the passage which had once connected the mon- 
astery with the valley below. Some human 
bones he found, buried in quicklime, dry and 
brittle, at the bottom of this passage. But they 
had evidently been there a couple of years and 
more. 

It was the only fruit of his researches. For 
no trace of the body of his brother Granville 
was ever found. 


[the end.] 


A DAUGHTER OF 
THE PILISTINES 

By LEONARD MERRICK 

44 It is the kind one longs to find after trying 
many and not meeting satisfaction. ” — Times 
Union , Albany . 

* ‘ A constantly increasing pleasure as you peruse 
page after page.” — Evening Gazette , Boston . 

44 It is a good one and an interesting one.’’ — Buf- 
falo Express . 

44 A noteworthy novel.” — Chicago Tribune. 

44 He works out the situation to a fortunate con- 
clusion.” — Book Buyer. 

44 A distinctly good novel of real life.” — Boston 
Tunes . 

“A capital story.” — New York Press. 

44 It is a novel of more than usual interest and 
cannot fail of an abundant popularity.” — Army and 
Navy Journal. 

44 A delightful story.” — Cincinnati Enquirer. 

44 Has a quality of its own.” — Literary World . 

‘‘Unusually strong points. ” — Buffalo Commercial 

44 An extremely clever story. ” — Albany Argus. 

44 Interesting creation.” — Louisville Times. 

44 With a feeling of loving regret I lay down the 
jook . * 9 — E vening Record . 

44 An interesting and well told tale.” — Evening 
Star , Washington. 

4 ‘ An extremely clever tale.” — Indianapolis Sen- 
tinel. 

44 More than usually interesting.” — News y In- 
dianapolis. 

44 An excellent story well told.” — Rochester 
Herald . 

44 Starts upon a good literary level, and maintains 
it to the end, and never for a moment degen- 
erates. . . . One sits through the story with gen- 
uine pleasure, and rises from the reading of it with 
indubitable refreshment.” — Daily Chronicle . 

i2mo % cloth , $1.25 

New York : R. F. FENNO & COMPANY 




























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